


Forged in Ice

by CaptainCrozier



Series: Forged In Ice [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bigotry & Prejudice, Boats and Ships, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead People, Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, Fire, Fix-It of Sorts, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Guilt, Loneliness, Love, M/M, Melancholy, Monsters, Not What It Looks Like, Prophetic Visions, Psychic Abilities, Secret Relationship, Starvation, Survivor Guilt, The Royal Navy, Victorian Attitudes, Visions in dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-07-16 02:01:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 97,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16076000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainCrozier/pseuds/CaptainCrozier
Summary: Something was forged in that Arctic Ice, something Crozier will carry with him always, something that gave him hope, and the strength to get home. It was love... But the moment of its existence was cruelly brief.... and what is he without it now?Haunted by and faithful to its memory, he tries to carry on, but how does one continue when faced with its ghost, every day?COMPLETED!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Terror fic. Please be gentle. Probably got historical stuff wrong though I am trying! Francis Crozier (plus a few) survive and return to England where he struggles to cope with his re-emergence into London society - he wasn't very good at this stuff to start with poor love. Crozier has always been a lonely man, as he writes himself in letters to JCR, but now its worse than ever before.
> 
> Its Fitzier. Its not all quite as it seems. Its not as depressing as it sounds ....Probably have a happy ending but my stuff usually does massive angst first.
> 
> Expect: Flashbacks. Slow burn. Character deaths. Some gothic stuff. Some kind of rescue. Bound to have smut. Crozier is Captain of the Good Ship Misery but I will save him if its the last thing I do.

_God wants you to live, Francis._

The words followed him from his dream. In the grey half light of morning, he imagined them floating like breath towards the crack in the curtains, seeking out the light there, the breeze beyond the glass. He wished to set them free; from the tiny room with its dark oak and threadbare carpets, from the few trinkets that decorated the bureau, from the dress uniform which hung on the closet door and the promise he had made to it. He did not wish to be here.

_God wants you to live._

But he was, nevertheless. He was alive and he owed it to the memory of that voice to at least…. Try. Crozier rose, and followed the words, the heavy covers slithering from his body.  He padded barefoot to the window. A man who had not endured the arctic night would have flinched at the cold tiles which now pressed against his soles, but he barely registered the December chill.  Slowly he pulled back the drapes and below him London stirred; gloomy, dirty, the scent of smoke cloying, wending like ivy through the gaps in the seal of the window. His breath misted the glass for a moment and he watched dully as it shrank back, faded, vanished. All trace of him gone, once more.

He had not expected this, of all things, upon his return to London. Court Martial, yes, and the furore that went with that process. Then, later, perhaps, obscurity; there were others better suited to the role of hero than he, others who were younger, more becoming, less Irish, others who were already eagerly preparing for another trip to the Passage. Soon they would don the mantle of Explorer with the Discovery Service and Francis Crozier would all but disappear.

He expected these things and he would allow them to come to pass with something akin to relief. He did not seek recognition or accolade; a hundred men lay dead and lost and their souls weighed heavy upon his shoulders. To be knighted or even to write a memoir seemed wrong, offensive to the deepest of sensibilities. No, he was content enough to slip away from all that had been, as far as he could, take rooms apart from the social hubbub of the admiralty, and begin to try and piece together the vestiges of his life.

_God wants you to live._

But he had not expected…. _This._

Life had always been the navy. He barely had a memory from before the time he signed up at aged thirteen. Dozens of years at sea, at least ten on Terror herself, some fifteen winters in the ice and goodness only knew how many hours of darkness. The endless months without sunlight. The endless isolation. There had been friends, rare friends, Ross, and Blanky and a handful of others who tolerated his melancholy but mainly there had been Crozier, and his charts and calculations and personal stockpile of whiskey. A few months on land here and there meant he never laid down roots despite a notion that he might like to. In all his fifty- two years there had been One…. _One_ flirtation with the possibility of marriage, and then inevitably, back to sea.

There was e’er nothing for him, on land.

_My dear friend, I know not what else I can say to you, in truth, I am sadly lonely._

So it was when he set sail for the passage, scribbling a final missive to James Ross. And so it was now, but he knew it could be otherwise and somehow that was worse than a lifetime of unpunctuated loneliness. God had wanted him to live, but more than that, _he_ had begun to want it.  For the briefest of moments in that harshest of lands he had been given a reason _why_. He had felt _hope_ against all that told him there was none. He had loved and been loved. There was something, or someone to live _for_. And now it was gone.

_I am sadly lonely._

He felt it surround him in his room. He felt it in the bustle of the street. And most painfully he would feel it again when forced to attend the gala at the admiralty tonight.  John Barrow was dead, not a week before, and the admiralty in mourning, but the thing proceeded.  Death was a glorious thing and a celebration of Franklin, to his memory and to those brave survivors who had straggled home that autumn of 1848 had already been arranged with Barrow’s blessing. It would serve as a tribute to both Sir Johns and to all they had been seen to achieve.

It occurred to Francis, and to him alone it seemed, that it ought to be a more solemn affair; an earnest memorial in hushed tones only. Not for those leaders whose names would live on in history, but for the men and boys he had watched die on the ice. Men who had died well and bravely, but men whose deaths could have been prevented, could have been less cruel. In the frozen, lifeless wilderness of the North, there was no glory in death. Only pain, and fear.

For a moment he remembered the weight of a wasted body in his arms, the scent of rot on its breath and the blood that oozed from wounds long healed, and his own limbs felt too heavy.

_God wants you to live._

He shook himself from the recollection. He ought to shave and prepare, he ought to do _something._ Francis dipped his fingers into the basin before him. The water in the washstand was cold but at least he did not have to break through an inch of ice to reach it. In an hour there would be enough light to see, but for now the reflection in the glass stared back at him like a ghost and held him paralysed. The winter dawn had leeched him of colour but lent a darkness to his hair. Still too thin cheeks pitched hollow and carved angular grooves in the muscles of his jaw.  Eyes he knew were blue in the light of day, looked back at him from shadow.  He had seen the face before; it was not his.

 _God wants you to live, Francis_ , the dream voice repeated.

‘Is this living?’ he asked its face.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis goes to the gala, and yes, its as bad as we thought.

The admiralty was festooned in decoration. Lamps burned and candles glowed, the brilliant crystals dangling from the ceiling picked out on flame and glittering obscenely. In the great hall where Francis now loitered, back to the wall as though cautious of attack, the heavy tables groaned with oddities and curios; things brought back by heroes and intrepid adventurers past and present.  He knew from experience that many of the unseemly items had been removed; grotesque figures from the east, naked and fornicating, shocking weapons, blunted to crack skulls. Hadn’t Cook himself been eaten by natives?

Tonight, these ornaments were both offensive to the lady guests and largely irrelevant. This was a celebration of the cold; north and south, and the reception area had been adjusted accordingly. Here was an Esquimaux carving, a palm sized figurine wrought in ivory. There was a sharp knife used to slice blubber. Objects littered table tops. Practical things that once were used to kill, hunt and eat. Ceremonial items of huge import to the natives of that harsh land. All now displayed as novelties, devoid of function, life, _meaning_. Just another conquest, another feat of glory. Around the room paintings hung on walls, daring exploits rendered in oil for all to gawk at. White, white, with the occasional streak of red.

Gawk they did. Children at a Fayre, safe in the knowledge that any horrors they may see would be quickly chased away by a full meal and a warm bed later. Safe from the memories of those men who were left behind. Francis watched the throng from his corner, at once tormented and envious of their frivolity. Lords and Ladies, fine gentlemen and their companions, lingering before these sights and commenting in awe. In his chest something painful tightened at their words; Crozier tried not to listen to the inanity of their observation.

‘Such a fearsome beast!’ a woman in green held one gloved hand over her mouth as she stared. The white bear of the painting fought valiantly against a team of men with muskets, but it was clear from the bloodied details it would soon lose, conquered against the odds by the sheer determination of good honest Englishmen.

‘No match for our lads, of course,’ a nameless officer replied. Young in feature and frightfully well-coiffed, Francis did not recognise him. He was probably promoted through the ranks through friendships and promises even while Crozier was starving in the wastes. Tall, slender, the tips of his fingers well-manicured and undamaged; Francis was certain he had never seen the ice which he now described to his companion in lurid detail, thrilling her with descriptions of frostbite and searing winds. That pale and flawless skin had ne’er felt an artic wind in all its days.

He reminded Crozier of another young officer years before. Before the reality of the arctic had carved grooves of age into his face and gnawed at his dwindling flesh. How it had changed him, that young and joyful man, who had climbed the rungs of success, and charmed the ladies and replaced Francis’ friend Ross as the most ‘handsome man in the navy.’  He wondered how these ladies might have reacted, had they seen the scourge, had they smelt the stench of it as his body was consumed. They would have run screaming.

Instead, Francis Crozier, had held him. Closer and dearer.

_The feel of the bandage under his cold fingers. The sound of the wind against the tent, the gaps in its bindings, the blistering cold of the blizzard forcing its way through. Francis had turned his back to it to shield the man before him as he worked. Wrapping the cleanest linens he could find around a too thin arm, around a wound that leaked plasma and pus, the surrounding skin goose fleshed in the pale light of the lamp they shared._

_‘There is time,’ he had said quietly as he finished, helped his companion on with his layers. Damp wool. Damp and chill, despite all attempts to dry it._

_He remembered the tired eyes that looked back at him then. The tiny flame of hope within. It seemed to burn only when looking at Francis.  His James. For whom Francis was a beacon in the darkness. For whom Francis_ mattered. _And for that alone he would march another 800 miles if needs be, to hold onto that flame, he would shield it with his life and bring James home. He must. Nothing else would do._

_‘There is time,’ he had repeated, ‘I will not leave you here alone.’ A smile and a hand covered his and squeezed. It was the only warmth in that place._

The fanfare pulled him sharply from his reverie with a rush of panic. Though the scurvy had left him it seemed that sudden noise still rattled his constitution. Too many years of the quiet creaking ice. Explosive noise meant one thing only; threat. Gunshot, or screams, the roar of a beast. He felt his heart thump against his loose dress jacket and the sweat prickle on his back.

It is just a fanfare. The show begins. The Story of _Erebus_ and _Terror._

For the twentieth time Crozier glanced towards a waiter circling with drinks. The finest wines and champagne drifted past him on silver plates like boats on calm waters. None of them contained whiskey, for which he was both grateful and frustrated. He drummed impatient fingers against the panel behind him to prevent himself from signalling for a drink. Christ. The night had hardly begun and he was already tortured. He burgeoned with a sense of injustice. _He_ had guided them home had he not? _Without_ fanfare. Without accolade. His job was done. Surely now he could take a sip? No-one would care. No-one would stop him. But he knew where it would lead.

He wondered if it would be such a bad thing.

The flourish came again. A call from the steps which led up from the great hall.

‘Lords and Ladies, it is the Admiralty’s great honour to welcome you this fine mid-winter evening to an event much anticipated…’

A muttering around him. Every eye looked upwards to the herald at the top of the stair. His full navy regalia glinted in the light. He had probably never even been to sea.

‘We are honoured to welcome amongst us, a great man, a gentleman, a peerless sailor with no equal…’ Francis allowed himself to raise one eyebrow even as he felt his throat tighten uncomfortably, ‘and, perhaps it might be said, the Navy’s finest Captain, for an evening of such wonders as we shall never see with our own eyes, such tales….’

He could not hear it, he could not listen.  All that he had faced in the last year and now this. A trial so small in comparison, no lives would be lost here tonight, all he had to do was keep quiet and politely applaud, but he had lost all patience with pretence. Fear and anger coursed through him, disproportionate and untempered, threatened to take what little dignity he had remaining and toss it into the pit. Why had he come here? To hear tales from a world these people would never comprehend?  To hear the audience gasp? He had lived it all. What fresh hell was this that he must hear it again?

The wave of heat moved down his back and circled his chest with too tight arms. Francis’ breath grew shallow and rapid, the sweat pooled now at the base of his spine. He ran a finger under his cravat and felt the material grow damp. This room. This damnable room. Too hot. To his left the huge grate burned with logs, piled high against the December night. They crackled and spat and danced before him, each flame twisting as he watched. Faces, faces. Faces in the fire.

‘… of adventure and courage, of great beasts and brave deeds….’

The smell of burning. Of wood and flesh. The hiss of the ice. The steam that billowed palely from the ground as the smoke hung black above him. There was screaming.

‘This man who has survived all to tell us these wonderous tales,’

The trample of bodies underfoot as the men fled the wreckage of Carnivale. The flimsy tents burning so brightly then crumpling to nothing. Black and charred, like the bodies within.

‘The man who with his wits and courage saved so many…’

He had to move, he had to get out. Admiralty be damned, he had to get out. Francis pushed too quickly away from the wall, bumped a lady in purple silks as he moved and dimly registered the startled exclamation at his rudeness. He could feel the smoke in his eyes, stinging, in his throat, choking. He needed air. Clean, cold, bitter air. He had to get out, before... before.

‘My Lords and Ladies please bid welcome….’

The figure was at the entrance to the Hall and as one the throng turned to greet him, parting like the sea at the command of his bright smile, giving him passage to the stairs. Francis had stumbled blindly to within feet of the same exit and now shuddered to a halt, his escape blocked. There was a polite shoving of bodies pressing towards the new guest and he was forced back, his clumsiness and desperation quickly lost in the crowd. There were eyes only for one Captain here.

 _The one who led them home,_ Crozier thought dully, _In his version anyway._

Polished buttons and sparkling epaulettes. A uniform so neatly tailored and unmarked it could be no more than a week old. Dark hair oiled and flawless, an arched brow of amusement at the excited reception and the twitch of a smile at his lips. A white gloved hand greeted the ensemble as he walked; affable and pleasant but dignified, as befitted his new station.

Sir James Fitzjames glided past Francis without so much as a glance.

His chest ached. He wanted to run but he was fixed to the spot. He wanted to follow but he could no more do that than leave. So, Crozier lingered, the heat of the fire uncomfortable on his back, and as he did so the crowd melted before him, trailing after their hero. Even in the strange acoustics of the great hall the confident boom of his oration could be picked out as he made his way up the stairs, flanked by the worthy and great, to where the gala’s headline talk would be held. Francis watched his disappearing back, each movement so familiar and yet so strange.  A voice that had once whispered close to him, warm breath intimate on his skin, now rang from the walls, impersonal, distant.  At last James vanished into the upper hall amidst the bustle of skirts and excited chatter, and the gilded oak doors swung shut with a bang.

A clock ticked nearby. The fire crackled. Heavy silence fell over cold marble floors. For a moment Francis stood still in the great hall, out of place, awkward, and as lost as the displaced relics of the arctic people perched stiffly on plinths and plaques around him.

_I am as a ghost to him now._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis can be alone no longer...

The snow called to him. So much more so than the heat and commotion of the upper hall. Finally, the laughter from Fitzjames’ presentation drove him further to the door and then outside, where the blessedly cold night greeted him as an old friend. Though a path had been dug around the courtyard, it had quickly filled again, a trench of white as the falling sky frithered with flakes. He made his way to the centre of the little garden and with minimal effort brushed down the seat he found there. The wrought iron pressed like ice against his thighs as he sat, the snow melting into the wool of his uniform. It was nothing. He would hang the garments by the fire on his return to his rooms and they would dry by morning. What did it matter if the winter seeped into his clothing now? He could touch the twisted black metal with bare fingers and feel no pain. His skin would come away intact. The leather of his boots would not crack frozen around his feet.  He wondered if he would ever feel truly cold again and watched his breath float before him like mist, diminished and pale.

In the arctic it would drop like glass shards from the air.

Even now James was recounting tales involving crystals dangling from noses, beards frozen white and eyelashes stiff with ice. The frost fell over faces like a shroud of premature age, sapping heat and life. Every soul was old in that place.

The laughter came again from the top windows, lit warmly overhead. Just what was his Second finding to speak of that drew mirth from the crowd? Curiosity drew Francis’ eye, but he could not quite bear to listen, it had been a challenge to control his fluctuating temper thus far, and he did not trust himself in James’ presence. Even before they had docked in Portsmouth he had seen the change in him, as the wounds healed and the flesh filled out; the James he had grown to love had evaporated before him.

Fitzjames had emerged from their shared cabin, drawn by the sound of the crew and the heat of the stove. The men cheered to see him and, as quickly as he was welcomed by them as a hero, he became to Francis, distant, even aloof. Holding court in the overcrowded berths of the rescue ship, _Enterprise_ , the avid seamen lingered on his every word. James had fed from them, his ego grown fat, even as he had fed his body on long wished for supplies. Francis watched from the shadows as the rare arctic rose bloomed before him, unrecognisable.

He remembered the glances from his men; the confusion therein.  The few survivors largely kept to themselves, but in those first days even they queried the transformation, the twisting of words. Low muttering and puzzled countenances. Had it really been as Fitzjames described? Francis watched their brows furrow with thought; scurvy deceives the memory, perhaps they had been mistaken? Perhaps the worst of the horrors were nightmares indeed? Perhaps… no matter, there was food and warmth and hope at last. The sound of laughter drowned out all doubt in men too weak to waste energy on misery now. Old fears were soon forgotten. But Francis was not a man to ever forget fear.

James talked. Men listened. Memories were quickly moulded into tales. Tales transformed into legends. Legends into myth. By the end of the journey home no man could be sure where the truth now lay; tell a man a story often enough and he will come to believe it. The only truth that mattered was their survival.

Now, back in London, Francis began to doubt even himself. After all, his mind had played tricks on him before. In the throes of his withdrawal he had seen visions of the past and of years to come. Was it such a leapt of imagination that his mind might try to urge him down paths otherwise neglected, show him a future otherwise out of reach? Would a desperate man not listen to any source of hope? What was real and what was not, what would and could be, were easily blurred by a sickened cognizance, fed by scurvy and lead, starvation and cold.  He saw Visions and he had believed that his fate and those of all his men were held within their grasp. Had any of it been real?

Perhaps James was right about it all. Perhaps _his_ version was the truth. Perhaps he, Francis Crozier, Captain and Leader had succumbed to madness months ago, dreamed it all; the things he had done, the men he had saved, the man he had loved.

‘Francis?’

He had been dimly aware of the light behind him, but her appearance caught him by surprise. She had slipped through the doors to the courtyard as silently as he had minutes before and now stood ankle deep in snow, the heavy silks of her dress dragging in the wet.

Purple silks. She was bending the rules once more. They ought still to be black.

‘What are you doing out here?’ she asked. She came a fraction closer and again her skirts dragged. A ship’s bow in the ice. He watched the moisture seep up from the hem, turning dark in the gloom. ‘Francis?’ she insisted.

‘Go inside, Sophia, you will catch cold.’

She laughed at that, high and strained. ‘You have survived much worse,’ she commented.

‘All the more reason to take my advice now,’ he kept his eyes on the ground before him, churlishly refusing to rise in her presence. Etiquette be damned.

‘I thought you would knock me quite to the floor,’ she said conversationally and fluffed her damp skirt, ‘Such was your haste to get away.’

Of course, it had to be her. The shocked sound, the purple dress, his desperation to escape the fire behind him. Of all the people, it had to be her he barged through to his escape.

‘My apologies,’ he grunted.

Sophia appeared to decide this was as much of an act of contrition as she would get from him and took it as a cue to sit. The movement pulled him from his sullen reverie.

‘What are you doing? It’s freezing out here,’ he protested, ‘You will be soaked in moment. Get back inside by the fire.’

‘Is that an order?’ he glanced at her and noted her half smile, bemused and teasing.

‘Would you listen if it were?’

‘No,’ she said firmly.

Francis looked at her exasperated. Her hands were gloved but lacked a muffler and she wore no cape. ‘Where are your outer things?’ he asked.

‘I daresay in the cloakroom with everyone else’s,’ she dismissed him, ‘Really Francis I’m fine, besides, you only have your uniform.’

‘I’ve just spent three years in the North.’

‘Does that make you immune to snow, Francis? Do you not feel it?’

He laughed shortly, ‘I feel nothing.’

‘I do not believe that,’ she said quietly.

The snow fell in larger flakes around them but there was no breeze. He watched them settle on his sleeve and nest together undisturbed. In the distance a clockbell chimed. Sophia did not move. Slowly his inner gallantry tugged at him, dredged up from a more chivalrous time before survival knocked all politeness from his already surly demeanour.  He should at the very least escort her back inside, but the difficulty would be that once there, he would be compelled to remain, perhaps even attend the talk upstairs.  Courtesy lost to petulance.  She was a grown woman and she could move if she desired. Let her sit there as long as she wished.

‘I used to stand in the snow,’ she said suddenly as though reading his thoughts, ‘On cold nights, just to imagine it.’

‘Imagine _what_?’

‘What you might feel.’

Francis looked side long at her in vague disbelief. The snow was settling in her hair and in the darkness she looked paler than usual. She was unfazed by his incredulity.

‘Whatever you felt,’ he said, ‘It was not a tenth of the cold we endured.’

She nodded sadly and looked down at her hands, flexed her fingers experimentally. He realised they probably had begun to burn with the chill and resisted the urge to warm them with his own.  Those days were long past, and it was her choice to sit that way.

‘Go inside,’ he said again, ‘Frostbite is unbecoming in young ladies.’

‘Did you suffer from it?’ she asked quickly.

‘We all did,’ he looked back at the ground. Then in a moment she did what he could not. Sophia reached for his hands, at once, and cleanly, grasping both in hers and turned them over and back. He had no time to pull away as she felt at each joint of his bones.

‘Captain Fitzjames spoke of amputations,’ she remarked.

‘Did he now?’ _And very glamourous it probably sounded too,_ he bit back.

‘Fingers and toes, he said, just now. A few of the ladies appeared quite ill at the thought… I made my excuses… thought it an opportunity to come and find you.’ She completed her inspection of his hands and looked up at him questioningly. ‘You have spent so many winters in these places Francis and yet you are intact…’

_Intact._

‘I have been lucky,’ he replied with irony, ‘Luck is all on these expeditions. Luck and a decent Captain who makes sure to chide you if your muffler slips or you appear above deck ungloved. I’ve had some good teachers.’

‘Was it luck that you came home?’ she asked.

He regarded her levelly. ‘I no longer know, just that I am here…’

‘Perhaps God guided you?’

He felt the bitterness in his words even before he uttered them, ‘Not God.’

‘Something then… something unique to you?’ her eyes were too perceptive.

Francis hesitated, ‘Experience maybe, and a well-timed thaw, a knowledge of the place I barely knew I had gathered… it was a hundred things and none I’m sure.’

Sophia smiled and let go his hands, ‘Evasive… but I do believe that is the most you have spoken to me since your return, you can be so frustratingly monosyllabic.’

Francis made a grumbling noise.

‘Don’t revert to type,’ she scolded.

For a moment he did, but ever conscious of Sophia’s gaze on his profile he grew uncomfortable. Eventually her scrutiny forced words from his throat once more.

‘You have no desire to go back to the talk?’ he asked.

‘Do you?’

‘I have heard it all before.’

‘So have I.’

He raised one eyebrow.

‘Sir James paid me a visit recently, we spoke at length,’ Sophia said coolly.

‘How nice,’ Francis grumbled. He could visit Sophia then, but not Crozier himself. Just where did his damn loyalty lie?

‘I would have heard your version Francis, but you declined my invitations,’ Sophia continued, misplacing his irritation.

‘I have not been…. I…. am not suited to company these days. Forgive me.’

There was a slow beat of time. ‘Francis?’

‘Yes?’

‘What happened?’

‘Ask James.’

‘To you,’ she clarified, ‘Out there. I want to know what happened to _you._ ’

The familiar pang at his chest and now another sensation creeping from his fingertips. A burning he recognised as cold. He formed a fist with one hand and rubbed his palm around it before switching sides. Damn her for coming here. He had been content to be frozen.

‘If I were to tell you Sophia…’

‘Tell me…. I feel that you want to at heart… whatever it is, it must be a lonely burden to carry.’

He smiled ruefully and faced her. Her kind words threatened to undo him, but these were not tales he could share. ‘I already have a blasted reputation,’ he explained, ‘I am unsocial and unschooled, common born, Irish and without manners. The admiralty hardly tolerate me even on my best days. Add to those sins new accusations of filth and heresy and I shall be drummed from society completely.’

For a moment Sophia did not react and then a slow smile crept across her full lips.

‘Do you really think that I of all people would condemn you?’ she said.

‘In the past Sophia, you have been amongst the first to notify me of my inadequacies.’

She seemed to flinch, but her composure would not be ruffled long.  ‘I have made mistakes and I have changed,’ she said simply. ‘And I would hear _your_ story. Keep it safe. You can _trust_ me, Francis. I have hurt you so much in the past, let me try and heal you now, even if we cannot heal ourselves.’

The ice sparkled in her blonde hair now like a crown, her dress spotted with glimmering flecks held suspended against the frozen fabric of her mourning dress. As he watched he saw her try to blink away the snowflakes from her eyelashes. Perhaps she too had aged, alone here in the cold.

‘Not here, nor in there…’ he said with a glance towards the upper hall and the muffled sounds of James’ oration.  ‘As tales go it is a long one, and I would rather it were not interrupted by… Others….’

She caught the line of his eye and nodded slightly.

‘Your rooms then, are they far?’ she asked.

‘I hardly think I can sneak an unchaperoned lady back to my naval rooms on a dark night…’ he groused, preparing to rise stiffly from his seat. There was an ache in his hips he had failed to notice earlier, and the backs of his trousers were soaked through. ‘Perhaps we should reconvene over afternoon tea and try to be at least a little civilised.’ He could barely muster enthusiasm for the concept, but he supposed he must try.

‘No, I would hear your words tonight,’ said Sophia and he recognised the glint of steel in her voice. She was not to be dismissed on this matter. She stood smoothly, unaffected by their long conversation in the elements, her layers of petticoats apparently acting as insulation, and moved as though to exit the courtyard.  Crozier began to protest but she held up a hand to silence his efforts.

 ‘We will proceed to your rooms. You have never been one to baulk at such things before, Francis. You would speak of filth and heresy. One can hardly do that in a tea room and I can only surmise that clandestine meetings with unmarried ladies are the least of your concerns given such profound declarations. Besides…’ her toned softened again, ‘I have visited before…. Have I not?’

He floundered, reddening, and she lost patience.

‘Really Francis, you are as hopeless in society as ever! You can hardly look at me!’

‘Sophia!’

‘It has a certain charm… this bashful, gruff, awkwardness of yours… but I daresay the Northern Wastes have little use or patience for modern niceties of manner. Captain Fitzjames as we see him now would be a veritable fish out of water in such an unforgiving place... and yet… he is a hero and you an outcast. He has claimed each accolade as naturally as an infant claims the breast, and you shy away. It does not sit well with me, Francis, it does not seem… _right_.’

‘It isn’t,’ Francis muttered, ‘He is not… that is, he was a better man… I thought he was…. I… barely know him now…’

‘Francis?’

The concern in her eyes was real enough and his breath betrayed him, catching in his throat unexpectedly, confusion choking him. He knew at that moment he had to tell her, he had to tell _someone_ , before the pressure in his chest rose like the tide in a storm and dashed his sorry heart to pieces. Without another word, Sophia took his arm, and led him home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis begins his story. Sophia listens and we... are transported to a time when he and James were just really beginning to know one another.  
> Canon until Francis detoxes... then this happens.

Sophia poured tea into china cups. Seated in the single chair by the fire; quite the lady had it not been for her soaked skirts and reddened cheeks, the bite of frost colouring her complexion. Francis lingered by the bureau. At the centre an empty crystal decanter and glasses glinted in the candlelight of his room. He twisted the stopper forwards and back listening to the rasp of the glass as it turned. It sounded like ice.

‘Would you rather something stronger?’ she asked from behind him. He heard the chink of the spoon as she stirred. He let out a wry chuckle.

‘Always,’ he said obliquely. Sophia waited and eventually he sighed, rousing himself, and moved to stand by the fire. The wet uniform he wore clung to him and slowly heated.

‘You should change,’ she observed, ‘You are wet through.’

‘It will dry,’ he saw her glance again at the decanter. When he had seen her last he had had no hesitation in helping himself to whiskey.

‘You no longer partake?’ she queried. In answer he stooped and lifted the teacup.

‘No,’ he said, ‘And that I suppose is as good a place to begin this story as any.’

 

The fits were lessening in frequency and strength, but he still could not place time as he woke from them.  Night or day it made no difference now, his existence was all one as the spirits left his body. Just a jumble of half seen images and dreams, peppered with strange Visions. He drifted or sank, depending on perspective, through a world that was sometimes merciful and sometimes cruel. Pictures of childhood interspersed with the horrors yet to come, that somehow he _knew_ would come but could not speak of. He would scream in his sleep to escape them, and yet they would not stop.  A nightmare would pass, but these were no mere nightmares. He had seen them before, since childhood, and knowing their implications in a God Fearing Anglo-Irish Church he had kept silent.

Silence is simple in a civilised world that holds no trust in superstition. Where good men go to Sunday Service and nobody speaks of ghosts. Even on a ship such mutterings are hushed and men punished for their fancies. In the months before this sickness, Fitzjames had spoken harshly to his men, removed all trace of their superstitious beliefs and every false icon that decorated Lady Silence’s cave.  Time passed. And Francis would have buried his dreams forever, but the Ice was a lonely place, disconnected from those things that usually allowed him to do so. No church. No society. No pretences to keep. Once he would have explained away his predictions as he once had to Sir John, but not now.

_Trapped in the Ice, in a place that wants us dead. Live men and dead men. We will be part of the pack._

Francis Crozier for all his idiosyncracy was a learned captain. He had experience of ice. He could spy snow upon its summits by a telescope and know which way it moved. He could consult with Blanky and prophesise its patterns. He could rationalise his predictions with knowledge and practice both.

He never had to admit that he had seen it before. In a dream. In a Vision. The frozen ships and the slow passage of time. The certainty those vessels would never sail again. He never had to acknowledge it to Sir John, or the officers, or even to himself. It was experience, that was all.

But it would not be ignored forever. Gradually Francis felt the call of the unknown more strongly than he would ever have admitted to on dry land. He felt it and he heard it. He drank to obliterate it, but still it came. The Visions, faster and more frequent. They would not leave him. As they lay frozen in the pack they taunted him. Small events depicted in his few sleeping hours, enacted when he woke. Nothing terrible, nothing of great import but sufficient. As though a voice would demand to be heard and believed. As though with these tests it tried to prove its worth. As though to say:

_Listen._

Tonight he had seen fire. And tonight again he tried to push the thing away. The unnamed thing that plagued him.

_Listen._

_I will not. That way madness lies._

Tangled sheets, soaked in sweat, both urine and bile pooled in the folds of his bedding, sticky against his skin, splattered on the floor. He groaned in pain and shame, dimly aware that Jopson would once more be forced to strip the berth, and his Captain, fetch tepid water from beyond the cabin door, and nurse him like a child.

In the back of his growing consciousness the flames flickered hotly and he tried to pull himself up into reality, through sound and touch and sensation. Through things that were material and tangible. Away from the implications of what he had seen, away from the threat. Away from the voice that would have his full attention,  and would have him see. He did not want to look.

_That way madness lies. Heresy and madness. It is the drink. And this sickness. It is fear and I will not listen._

With a surge he tried to rise, shake the scenes from his head and open his eyes. He felt hands at his shoulders, another set at his hips.

‘Easy,’ from beyond a haze of confusion another voice came soft, yet firm in its command. A voice he could trust from a world that was real. Bitter, and cold, but real and solid.  ‘You are coming back to us now, sir,’ it said, ‘it was a not a bad one this time, briefer than before, Dr MacDonald says it will ease soon.’

Fingers swiped at his brow, detecting without direction the irritation his sore flesh felt at the fine strands of his hair plastered there. A rag pressed to his skin, mercifully cool.  Francis lay back and the fingers worked on his nightshirt, tugging it up.

‘Can I help?’ a second voice.

‘I don’t like to, sir….’ Jopson replied. Francis focused on his tone. A familiar comfort in a still frightening world.

‘It’s no trouble, please… you cannot ask the men… there are only we few who know…’

Jopson must have nodded his ascent as there was movement and an arm behind Francis’ shoulder, lifting him from his pillow, holding him steady. Then the quick and practised movement of his steward, disrobing him, stripping away soiled sheets.

‘Could you…?’ he asked over Francis’ head.

‘Do what is needed, I have a good grip…’ the voice reassured.

A warm cloth this time passing over his cheeks and neck with care. The sound of water and the sensation moved over his chest. Jopson washed down his arms, the second man lifting them to ease his access, and then down over this stomach. Francis winced as the cold hit his nether parts, the sheets removed to be laundered and Jopson working to clean him. It was more humiliation than the chill, but even that had its limitations. Though he tried to focus on the details of the berth, unconsciousness threatened at each blink of his eye. He could not see the man behind him, only feel the strength of his arms keeping him steady, the rise of his chest against Francis’ back. One of the surgeons maybe, well versed in dealing with men in such a state. He tried to let go of his embarrassment and found it started to fall away through sheer exhaustion and the desire to feel clean and warm.

White, like a rising iceberg, flashed before him and then the soft feel of cotton on his skin as Jopson fitted him with a fresh nightshirt. The man behind him shifted clumsily and tried to help the steward tug it down. Francis caught a glimmer of Jopson’s smile, his teeth, as he shook his head kindly.

‘Its not so easy as it seems, Captain, dressing a grown man,’ he jested softly, ‘You’re doing a good job there.’

_Captain?_

There was a chuckle behind him.

‘I can barely dress myself, Jopson, I’d be quite lost without Mr Bridgens.’

_Captain? Jesus Christ, no._

‘There lay him back now. I’ll clear the pail and bring some broth, see if he might take it once he’s more awake.’

‘Very good, Jopson.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to relieve you sir? I can find Lieutenant Little perhaps? I did not mean to trouble you it’s just…’

‘I quite understand, Jopson. Francis has quite a strength about him when these seizures hit and you were alone. It was the least I could do. Can’t have you being punched in all the fracas,’ Fitzjames’ congenial chuckle grated at Francis’ still delicate ear.

‘Well it wouldn’t be the first time, sir,’ Jopson said then quickly backtracked, ‘I mean its not deliberate I know that and I would never tell him of it, but I got quite the blackened eye the first week.’

Mortification spilled into Francis’ gut. God almighty was there no-one on this earth he had not hurt or wronged.

‘At least it was an accident,’ James was saying, ‘He lands quite the punch when there is intent behind it.’

With an effort Francis made to put a stop to the infuriating and embarrassing conversation. At what point had Jopson grown so comfortable in damned Fitzjames’s company? This lighthearted banter, seemingly at his own expensive was intolerable. And what in God’s name was James even doing in his berth when he was so indisposed? He had asked his closest to help him yes, and James by rank alone had been present at that meeting, but he had never imagined that he of all people would risk soiling his hands in dealing with a drunkard’s delirium. Blanky, Jopson, even Little would muck in but _James_? The whole debauched and shameful scenario was such a slight to his puffed up sensibilities he would never….

‘Drop that soiled rag in there sir,’

‘Thank you…,’ and then seemingly to himself in a tone of baffled wonder, ‘Christ where does it all come from, the poor man’s hardly taken a sip of water in the all the time I’ve been here.’

How long had James been attending him? Enough of this. Enough!

‘Jopson…’ Francis croaked.

‘Ah, Francis!’ James chirruped by his side. Though he had laid him back the braggard still had the impertinence to have one arm around his shoulders in what he must have felt was a gesture of comfort. Unfortunately, Francis did not yet have the energy to remove it.

‘I asked…. For Jopson….’

‘He has stepped out, he will be back presently. How are you feeling?’

‘How… do you think… I am feeling?’

‘Cantankerous?’

Francis opened his eyes. James looked down at him in the dim light of the berth. He was smiling broadly enough but his hair was less well coiffed than usual and there were shadows beneath his eyes. He looked pale and something… Francis squinted as he let his eyes scrutinise his second’s appearance. James’ free hand went self-consciously to his hairline.

‘Are you well?’ Francis asked in spite of himself.

‘Quite well,’ there was the faintest twitch of a reassuring smile, then it vanished. ‘Apart from the bruise,’ he quipped, turning his jaw so Francis might see. Indeed, there was still a faint mark where he had caught him. James turned back. ‘You are forgiven,’ he remarked with a hint of coquetry.

Francis raised his eyebrows. He could happily have punched him again just for that.

‘Am I, now?’

Something in James seemed to sag from the effort of his artificially winsome mood. He looked suddenly serious and a decade older than Francis remembered. ‘We are in need of our Captain,’ James explained. ‘There are decisions to be made and plans…’

Francis frowned. He had barely been conscious five minutes but something about James was making him deeply uncomfortable. Beneath the usual arrogant shine, tarnished as it was by fatigue,  there was a fidgetiness that was unbecoming to the handsome young officer, a neediness almost.

‘James?’

‘Forgive me, you are still unwell, there is time to address these issues. I have as far as I can, made inventories and been in discussion with the surgeons about the implications…’ he trailed off and began flicking at motes of dust on his trousers.

‘James? Look at me. What’s going on?’

A sigh. When he turned back there was unmistakable pleading to be found in his dark eyes. He looked at Francis like he might hold the key to all things. Like he would give over his burden at a moment’s notice for want of relief. Like only Francis knew the way out of their godforsaken prison and in sickness had denied James the escape. He had been waiting for his return to the waking breathing world so that he himself might breathe easier again.

‘It has been a long two weeks,’ James said with a nonchalant shrug. The nonchalance did not travel to his gaze.

Francis again raised an eyebrow as though to highlight his fortnight had not exactly been smooth. James let out an exasperated laugh.

‘Yes… yes…. That’s fair,’ he said.

‘James has something happened while I have been…’ he sought the right word and failed. Sick? Indisposed? An utter failure of a Captain?

‘Nothing untoward. There has been no sign of the beast. The men make on in their preparations for carnivale.’

_Fire._

Francis felt a stab of anguish.  ‘Are you sure it is wise?’ he asked quietly.

James looked for all the world as though he had been bracing himself for his defence of his party. His words felt rehearsed. Crozier was not certain even Fitzjames was convinced by them. ‘They need something, Francis, the surgeons are all in agreement. The men’s spirits are failing. Food is in short supply. The nights have been so long, and they have not seen the sun for weeks. They have quite thrown themselves into building us a little civilisation of merriment.’

Francis grunted. Civilisation.

_Listen._

Order and civilised society. Ships regulations and maps. Plans. These were the things that would see them through if anything would. Not whispers from dreams and visions of flames.

_Listen. Please…._

‘Very well, let them have their moment,’ he conceded, brushing aside his doubt. The voice fell silent but he could feel it watching.

_Fool._

 ‘Forgive me,’ Francis continued out of need to fill the silence it left, ‘I have always been one to …err on the side of pessimism.’

James looked surprised at his confession.

‘Putting it mildly, Francis,’ but his free hand reached out to grasp his fellow Captain’s. ‘Is there to be a new improved Francis Crozier? An optimist who will lead us like the hero he is to the green and pleasant land that is home?’ he asked. He sounded a little desperate.

The way Crozier felt at that moment he could not be sure of his answer. Maybe. If the ache ever left his limbs and the nightmares ever settled;  if he could stop puking and pissing the bed in fits of spasm. If he ever left this berth alive and with clear mind.

_Fool._

If the damned voice ever let up.

‘Perhaps,’ he conceded.

‘It would be a most welcome thing,’ James said and the change in his tone forced Francis to look up.

The pleading hadn’t left James’ eyes and it stirred something in him. Stripped back of his fancy uniform, his hair unoiled and the first hints of the long winters in his features, James looked very different to the man Francis had met at the admiralty years before. He realised he had himself been at sea since before Fitzjames was born, that he was hardened by experience where James was not. That the younger man had never felt the ice, the endless months of stasis, the draining of hope. He had been all heroism and bravado, action and consequence, battles and tales and muskets and glory.

And now he was frozen. Trapped in the ice. Where nothing moved, and nothing happened and there was seemingly no way out. Just the slow tick of time and the dwindling of supplies and the steady diminishment of spirit in all those around him. And he was frightened. James Fitzjames, the dashing young naval commander, was frightened.

That was what Francis saw in his eyes.

James was his second and in command of _Erebus_. His men looked to him for morale and despite it all he was trying, in his own, perhaps misguided way, to bring cheer and confidence and hope. But with Francis away he had taken that unto himself alone. For both ships. For the whole expedition. Francis knew only too well how that felt but to feel that on one’s first trip to these polar wastes, to be without guidance?  Who cheered James in the quiet hours of the night, when the men slept and he was solitary with his thoughts?

‘I have been a terrible First,’ Francis said. James blinked. ‘You have borne more than your share since the death of sir John and I… I have hidden in a whisky bottle.’

Fitzjames laughed softly, shook his head. ‘Oh Francis,’ he sighed, ‘A few months… nay even weeks ago I would be first to berate you for drowning your sorrows…but now…’

‘Now?’

James looked back at him, his hand seeking the comfort of Francis’ without realisation. ‘Now Francis,’ he said clasping it, ‘There is so… _much_ sorrow…. And you carry it upon your shoulders always, by your rank and by your nature… you knew before us all…. We ought to have listened and we failed you. I see it for what it is now… and a little of how that must have felt, we were arrogant and foolhardy and we did not _listen_.  I cannot begrudge you your escape,’ he paused in his flood of words before finishing earnestly, ‘ But I am glad, so glad, to have you with me again.’

Francis felt something shift inside him as he looked at his companion. For so long he had felt an imposter on his own ship, a thing extraneous to requirements, a ‘spare.’ He had been unwanted, unvalued, resented and unneeded. As he drank it was hardly noticed as he vanished into his cabin and sourly destroyed himself in pity. What use was he to anyone? The voice of doom. The unpatriotic voice of poor prospects and failed expeditions. Nobody wanted to hear, and nobody wanted to see.

He wished it had not been fear that had opened their eyes, but in doing so it, it had opened his too. He knew better than anyone how to captain this ship. He knew better than anyone the proclivities of ice and snow, the language of Esquimaux people. And he knew about survival. For all his melancholy, he burned to survive, to see his men well and home and safe.  He had the ability, the skill, the experience. He had…

_Listen._

He blinked it away. He would not be distracted. He was needed now. He was _needed._

‘James…’ he said, his voice stronger than before,  ‘We must _all_ escape… _that_ is what I must ensure. Perhaps now I will be better able to find the way. _We_ will find a way.’

He watched Fitzjames nod stiffly, his lips pressed in a hard line.

‘I am sorry I left you alone with this,’ Francis said, ‘I will not do that again.’

Another short nod. ‘Nor will I,’ James replied. ‘Nor will I, Francis, you have my word.’

 Crozier placed his warm palm over their clasped hands.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having left behind the good ship Canon we plunge into HMS Canon Divergence.  
> Francis hits carnivale and it becomes horribly clear what ignoring a Vision can lead to. Will he dare ignore the next one?
> 
> *crosses everything that she hasn't balled this chapter up* lol
> 
> This chapter is heavy on the supernatural, next chapter a bit more blokes stuck in the artic need to trek through the snow and ice and not starve in the process... which is more of my comfort zone!

‘Visions,’ she said. It was not a question nor quite a statement of fact. Francis drained his cup. He noted Sophia’s own sat before them, a polite remnant of tea at its base. Ever the refined lady it would not do to drink the dregs.

‘Visions,’ he confirmed. ‘They have been with me for as long as I remember… they are still with me now.’ He glanced at the mirror by his washstand but said no more.

‘They are but the fevered images a sick mind throws up in distress, Francis,’ she said smoothing her skirts. He noted they had begun to dry by the fire at last.

‘That is what I tried to tell myself,’ he admitted, ‘But it would soon become clear there was more at work than I had anticipated, that they would not be dismissed.’

She waited, a stiffness to her posture which could denote only scepticism. Perhaps fear. He had expected as much though he hoped for better. Even Sophia who considered herself to be the most openminded of women, was still, and to his own unfortunate experience, embedded in the values of a society that would struggle with his tale. She was, he was remembering, a frustrating conflagration of conflicted desires. She could frig him in a pond, unobserved, but she could not be seen to marry beneath her station. He wondered if there was any point in continuing, or if her deep rooted belief system would merely bring conflict he could well do without.

‘Sophia,’ he sighed, bending forward to deposit his empty cup and taking a seat on the bed, leaning so his hands clasped lightly between his knees, ‘I do not expect you to feel at ease with what I tell you… Lord knows I was not at ease in the living of it…’

‘You warned me of the contents,’ she said with a touch of defiance, ‘But really Francis when you mentioned heresy… I did not expect… this.’

He raised an eyebrow. How little it took to shake her confidence it seemed. So keen to hear the details she presented a front of absolute support to him, and yet when confronted with the truth, even now at the very start of his story, she began quickly to crumble. He watched her features. The shine in her eyes and blush of indignity over her cheeks. She was a girl, just a girl.  She was out of her depth. ‘What did you expect, then?’ he asked gently.

Again, she fiddled with her skirts. ‘You are Irish, there are Papists in your family, well-hidden but nonetheless they are in your line… I thought…’

He chuckled, ‘You thought I’d turned back to my Catholic heritage? Forged myself a rosery out of trinkets and beads? Truly Sophia that was the extent of your concern?’

‘I am not to know!’ she exclaimed, ‘You have never spoken of these trips in anything more than passing descriptions. You go away, you return, you leave again; with that same haunted, wretched expression on your face and sense of dread about you and you never tell me aught! I ask, and you refuse, I persist, and you get angry.  Whether you feel you would somehow trouble me with your burdens, or because I am a woman it would be inappropriate to give the details of your time there, I  do not know the reason. Only that you have never…’ she stopped, lowering her tone to a more appropriate level. ‘You have always excluded me, Francis, you would not speak of your experiences. How am I to judge if you will not tell me? How I am to understand what a place like that does to a man?’

 

The force of her words surprised him and relieved him both, and Francis nodded. He was, as he knew, a difficult man to draw into confidence and the weight of his experiences did not make for light conversation with eligible ladies. He could never turn a tale to heroism the way that James could, he could not sparkle. His words were always blackened by loss and hardship. Perhaps he had been too distant. Perhaps now he was being unfair.

‘You are right,’ he said kindly, ‘You are not to know. I have been…. Reticent…  But if you will hear it, I will tell you all now.’

‘I will,’ she said curtly and settled into her chair, ‘but on the subject of your Visions…. There must be reason behind them, an illness, a great stress on the mind… what you expect me to believe has no place in a Christian world.’

He laughed and levered himself back so that he might rest half against the bedhead. ‘Ah now we come to it,’ he said, ‘No… no they don’t and that was my problem with it too. But the world in which I have been is not Christian, Sophia, it is far from it and from God. It took me time to learn, but by Christ, I did. When the lesson came…’

‘Tell me then, this lesson, what it was and what you learned.’

Francis closed his eyes for a moment and allowed the sound of flames to reach him from the grate. The crack of logs and slip of coal against metal.

‘I dreamed of a fire,’ he said, ‘And before long, it burned.’

 

He had known before he mounted the ice and looked down upon Carnivale. He had known before he left the ship that night to lay eyes upon Fitzjames’ party. He had known in the last throes of his sickness and still he had not listened.

He had walked the decorated paths through the brightly lit rooms built upon the pack, embraced his friends and quelled the nausea in his gut. He had seen the crew full of grog and cheer, costumed and merry and tried to squash the tremor that ran through each nerve of his body. But he had known.

He had climbed upon a crate and spoken to his men of home. Told them plans for their escape in the spring and talked of hope and a future where all would be welcomed as heroes. And even before Doctor Stanley soaked himself and doused the fuel with flame, he had known.

He had seen the figure before, a human crucifix of fire, stumble through the tent igniting all at its touch. He had seen the roar of flame, the dry wood frames and canvas alight in moments. He had seen the pretty decorations crumple and fall scorched to the ground. He had felt the smoke in his lungs and heard the screams of men crushed hard against the sealed exit and now for a moment, just one, he held the Doctor’s eye as though the world was paused in the seconds before it all began. And he knew.

He should have listened.

‘Stop him! Hold him!’

But the moment was gone.

The fire raged and the ice cracked beneath it until the screams died and the first sunrise came to fall upon the charred remains of their false civilisation. So here was his lesson. The voice had grown tired of waiting, tired of demanding his attention through tricks and minor play. He had chosen to ignore it once too often and now the consequences lay before him in burnt bundles, all in a row, the smell of cooked flesh in the air. Each and every lost soul owed its loss to him. He did his best to comfort the men around him, tried to batten down the hatch of emotion that threaten to flood him. Had the Vision tried to warn him, or had it send this fire as punishment for his obstinacy, he could no longer tell. What was clear however was the need to learn.

This thing was part of this barren Godless wilderness. And if they were to survive, he must learn to heed its whim, whatever that entailed. Crozier pulled the torn and blackened union jack from the pile and dumping it with the other useless relics of a far away world, went to find Fitzjames.

 

When he eventually persuaded the Commander to return to his ship he damned as near had to carry him there himself, one arm around his back to stop him falling. While Bridgens heated water to wash his superior, Crozier’s own sooted hands worked to remove the costume James still wore as he sat by the burner in the Great Cabin of _Erebu_ s. A whole night of fire and the man’s hands seemed frozen, too stiff to undo the catches on his cloak, but his fingers were black more with dust than with frostbite. James’ hands would have full use; for now Francis suspected there was as much a lack of will as lack of ability. Fitzjames was leaden, the impulse from mind to hand deadened by shock.

Neither said a word, even as the water arrived, and Francis dismissed the steward with a look, preferring instead to soak the rags himself and quietly sponge away the night from James’ skin. It was penitence of a kind, an apology in action. He worked silently over his arms and down across his chest, careful not to aggravate the old scars nested clean and hard between his ribs. He was warming a fresh shirt by the fire and about to pull the blanket from around James shoulders to clean his back when his companion finally spoke.

‘I did this,’ was all he said.

_Not him._

Francis stopped in his endeavour and held the edges of the rough blanket secure in his hands. There would be time for his own self-pity later. For now he must remove the burden from James. After a moment he pulled the blanket around his friend and knelt to the floor before him.

‘No,’ he said softly, tucking the wool around James’ arms, ‘No, lad this wasn’t your fault.’

The look he had come to recognise as fear flashed over James’ face, quickly followed by the expression he had defined as pleading.

‘I ordered this thing… this… disaster.’

‘You ordered a party for the men, to give them cheer…. You had only good intention, James, and you cannot carry the blame.’

_That blame is yours._

James chewed his lip, gave a hard blink. ‘I am such a fool, Francis. We are stranded in this Godforsaken place, half sick already, no supplies and what do I do? I arrange a party?’ he laughed bitterly, ‘Oh you were right about me… from the start…. I have not the experience or the wisdom, what was I thinking… what was I…?’ he trailed off pained and covered his face. ‘Those men… those poor men… for nothing… and now their souls must lay to waste in this frozen hell and find no comfort…’

Crozier gripped his arm. ‘God will not overlook them James,’ he found himself saying, ‘We will give them proper service, and he will take them unto his Kingdom…’

‘You of all people, do not believe that…’

Crozier looked back at him steadily, ‘They are at peace, James, I will not have you believe otherwise. There loss is _our_ s to bear now, and when we get home, we must speak with each of their families so that they may bear their grief. But for the men themselves, there is no more pain, or fear.’

‘Do you not feel their burden, Francis? The burden of their souls?’

_You will see them in dreams. They will haunt you._

‘I do… more than you know, but that is my position as leader of this expedition. I must account for it all before Court Marshall, before God. Their lives weigh more heavily than I can describe but for you… James…. There is no burden. You were not to know….’

‘Nor were you….’

The soft comfort Francis was trying so hard to give his commander slipped for a moment and he felt his grip tighten on James’ arm. He faltered, words lost.

‘Francis.’

‘I….’

‘You had doubts, I know…. But you would never know what Dr Stanley was apt to do last night… that kind of madness… there is no prediction, so for you as much as me, if you are to go on the principles you have laid out, this is not your fault…. You could not know, you _did not_ know, Francis….’

_Fire. And a figure within. A crucifix of flame. Approaching through canvas and wood. Stop him. Stop him._

‘I… Jesus Christ… no… not now…’

The ship seemed to list beneath him although he knew no movement was possible. Quickly he stumbled back and stood, on weak legs, reaching for the desk behind him to steady himself. With his other hand he clasped his head, fingers and thumb pressed to each temple, his palm obscuring his vision, for all he could see was within.

_Fire. And a figure. A figure. Did you look Francis? Did you see? Did you Look at the figure when the Visions came…? Or did you choose not to, in case it was too real… in case you knew him…_

He staggered.

‘Francis!’ James was up and holding him now by the arms. The blanket fell away and Crozier felt the heat from his skin as searing as the fire in his thoughts. A shake of his shoulders. Hard. Driven by anxiety.

‘Francis, God Almighty!’

With an effort Crozier lowered the hand from his head, let it rest on James’s forearm. The Vision moved behind his eyelids, James’s voice far away.

‘Should I fetch the Doctor? I believe Goodsir is back on board. Francis? The colour has drained quite from you. Are you faint?’

He looked and could see the flames in James’ eyes, reflected from the burner beside them.

_Did you look Francis or were you afraid, were you afraid you would see his face? You knew the man but you would not look…. Did you see Stanley?_

‘I knew…’ Francis whispered. In the periphery of his vision he saw James’ brows knit. ‘I knew… that is… I saw…. But I did not look hard enough. I did not want to believe.’

‘Francis what is this? What do you speak of?’

_Look now. Look at your friend._

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

‘Francis!’

‘I should have…. If I had seen… I could have stopped him…. But… how… it would not be believed… they would have called me a madman, relieved me from duty… I could not have…’

_You could have found a way._

And he knew at once it was true. He stifled a sob, his throat hard and constricted.

‘Francis,’ James voice was glassy with urgency. ‘Stop this, you torment yourself, there was no way you could have known.’

‘But there was… there was… there _is_ … James… the Vision, it points the way and I am too afraid to see… I could have seen his face, it tried to show me, warn me…’ he stopped, too late.

There was a heavy pause and Francis could not bring himself to meet James’s eye. He must think him mad. Any trust hard won would be gone in moments. His battered melancholy captain had not emerged whole from the drink after all but tainted by insanity and talk of Visions. The weight of command would rest on James’ shoulders now, alone. Fear would drive him on but inexperience would hamper him and all because of Francis’ bitter failure as a Captain, as a man. Crozier bit his tongue, he should ne’er have spoken.

A hand guiding him gently. Kindness only.  ‘Francis. Let me help you, look at me Francis, pull yourself free of whatever torments you, _look_ at me…. Francis please… ’

_Look now. See where the future lies._

How he wished the voice would be silent, but the Vision pushed at the corners of his mind. Stronger than ever, more certain than before. He could not deny it further. If this was madness so be it. If this thing could have shown him Stanley, then what did it try to show him now? The deaths of twenty men rested on his stubborn refusal to look. He had fought and fought but it was stronger. He groaned painfully.

_Look now. As you did not before. Start with him. Look now at his face._

‘Francis?’  the tone more brusque and by reflex alone his eyes snapped to James.

That frozen moment, a stillness in time. He was aware of James moving slowly around him, concerned and troubled, but patient.  In his mind the voice too merely waited, offering no further direction, content to watch the scene play out. Content to show him.

‘Show me then. Show me what I must understand _,’_ he muttered as James moved back unhearing.

Francis’ eyes tracked him.  ‘Thank God,’ he was saying, ‘Good… now steady, come and sit down, this business has been as much of a trial to us both. You must rest, and no more of this self-blame….’ James stepped to pull a chair closer to Crozier.

The cabin shimmered.

‘Oh…’ Francis let the sound slip before he could stop it.

_A body once so vital now thinned and weakened. Thick hair lank over sorry shoulders and new lines on a young face. Eyes which sank into their orbit, filled with darkness, lips blackened and blistered. The scourge. Death lingering in the shadows. Starvation was a slow end._

James looked up from positioning the chair, his left side and his old scars visible upon his arm and chest. For a moment, in the light of the fire, in the shimmer of that prescience, the wounds began to bleed. Crozier’s breath shook, drifting from his lips as a silent plea.  He took a half step towards James, reaching as though he might touch the scars, seal them clean and dry.

‘Francis?’ he heard his name spoken without judgement, ‘Tell me, what is it you see?’

_Save him._

Francis dragged his eyes to the face before him and held on to what he saw there. In a heartbeat, James was whole again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With James' help Francis decides he must listen to his Visions, but he must also persuade his men that his decisions are to be trusted. The question remains however, can he trust them himself?

The hour was grown late, and although Francis was a veteran of sleeplessness, Sophia was not. As he stooped to stoke the fire, burned low during his tale, he caught from the corner of his eye a motion of fatigue from his companion. The slightest rub of her fingers at her brow, furrowed in both exhaustion and concentration. She had been silent for some time, the implications of what he had told her sinking in like salve. He had noted her shock and she had ceased to ask questions around the validity of his Visions, accepting instead perhaps that he was indeed some form of cursed heretic or madman. He only hoped when she finally chose to look at him again it would not be with condemnation.

Francis returned to his perch on the bed.

‘I should escort you home,’ he offered.

Startled Sophia admonished him immediately. ‘We are only just now reaching the crux of this story, Francis, I will not have you delay it further! You will only make excuses and retreat, as is your wont, avoiding what only you perceive as awkwardness or stating some imaginary concern that you are burdening my delicate feminine mind. No… I shall remain and you shall finish.’

Sighing and wrestling with his societal duty to see her safe and warm in bed at home, he turned out his pocket watch and inspected its dial. ‘It has gone…’ the urge to proclaim the hour ‘two bells’ briefly stalled him.

‘One, Francis, it is one,’ she said with something of a twinkle to her gaze. ‘I have stayed past this hour at many a society ball.’

He raised an eyebrow and addressed her somewhat gruffly. ‘Have you, indeed?’

Sophia smiled knowingly. ‘Sometimes until dawn, if the company was stimulating.’

‘And is it?’ he couldn’t help but ask. For Christ’s sake man why even now seek her approval?

‘It is.’ She held his eye a moment and he felt an old frisson pass through him. Goddamn her, even here, in the midst of all of his sorrow she was painfully adept at flattering him into being her theatre, a performing animal no less to while away the small hours. He would not be used in such a manner again!

‘This is not a matter for jest, Sophia, I will not be your night’s entertainment, I have not escorted you to a damn ball!’

‘Oh hush, I am well aware of that,’ she soothed and dismissed simultaneously. ‘It is merely my habit to tease, and you are so easy to rile…’

He glowered at her and she finally lowered her tone. Her flirtation melted and the fatigue showed again around her features.

‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘It is hard to hear of your distress, the things which you describe are both wonderous and agonising in their form, and it is my nature to kick against the solemn, I always have and as such I can appear rude… or flippant. But I know you Francis, and as your story develops you will try to force it to a halt. From some need to protect me, or yourself. You will shut down, as you always do, and push me away. If we break this meeting now, you will do just that, and be alone again with your burden,’ she paused, the weight of her words settling on him as he distracted himself with watching the fire. 

‘Francis?’ she said, ‘You are not to stop. Not until you reach the end.’

 

 

 

‘The agreed route was South,’ Little was saying. In the Great Cabin the remaining officers of the entrapped ships gathered tightly around the table in the darkness of afternoon. To Francis’ right he noticed James’ posture stiffen at the comment, the tassels of his epaulettes shimmied indignantly in the lamplight. He was the picture of his old self, drawn up in his chair, gazing imperiously down his fine nose at his subordinates. If they knew, what a costume he wore now.

‘It was,’ Fitzjames conceded, ‘But after discussion….’

‘To march North is suicide! There is naught to aim for there. No stockpile of supplies, no fort, no hope of encountering civilisation of any kind. If we move South at least we may aim for the Hudson Company.’

‘That will be enough Lieutenant,’ James said quietly, ‘The decision has been made between your Captains and with the knowledge of our Ice Masters.’

Little, already clearly uncomfortable with rebellion of any kind, was finally silenced. Hodgson, he nervous disposition eating at his composure, however was having none of it and took up the cudgel.

‘It is too far,’ he said, ‘South it is already six hundred miles, but to aim for the Sound on the unfounded notion that there may be rescue,’ he reached forward unto the map which lay between them and began walking callipers across the largely uncharted islands. Fitzjames waited him out icily. ‘You would be doubling our journey with already weakened men. We will be short of supplies by spring and with further to march…’

‘We will not wait until spring,’ Crozier said.

There was a stunned silence.

‘You plan to alter both the route and the timing?’ Irving queried quietly.

‘I do.’

‘But this is madness!’ Hodgson flurried, ‘The days are long and dark, the conditions freezing. We ought to wait until there is light enough for a good day’s march at least! Until a thaw!’

‘Mr Blanky,’ Crozier directed.

Blanky drew himself closer to the table, prising himself upward from the awkward recline he had adopted so that his leg may rest more easily. It clunked against the planks as he shifted. With aplomb he placed his hands upon the map before him, his fingerless mittens and grubby nails covering the area south of King Williams Peninsula.

Island, Crozier thought, it is an island. The image of its coast floated through his mind. No matter, it was not their destination now.

‘There will be no thaw,’ Blanky commenced in his best Yorkshire, ‘At least not one that will amount to aught this year. One is long overdue I agree, but the signs on the ice, and otherwise…’ he flicked his eyes to Francis, ‘give no indication it will come and we cannot bank on it.  In short, Nature doesn’t give a fuck lads about our plans. If we wait ‘til spring she is just as likely to send a blizzard then as now. Cold is cold. It’ll not go nowhere at our command.’

‘But the dark,’ Hodgson whimpered. Crozier shot him a look.

‘Ice is ice in daylight or in night,’ Blanky said, ‘It will be hard, aye, do ye think I wish to hobble my way through the pitch black? No, I’d rather wait for sunrise, but sunrise is a rare and weak thing here, and meanwhile we are wasting time… we should make on, as and when we can, camp when we can’t. But at least we will be moving. We ought to have moved long ago,’ he exchanged another look with Francis, ‘We ought to have gone for broke when we had the opportunity, when the signs told us to before, but we got ourselves complacent. The time for complacency is over lads. ’

‘Anything else Mr Blanky,’ Crozier prompted.

Blanky glanced at Goodsir, tight lipped and glassy eyed with worry, ‘We have concerns about our supplies, the Doctor may wish to tell us more but for me… we must make good use of them now, we must take what strength we have _now_ and use it well. We do not know how long we must march, or the toll it will take on us. But we must be doing something boys, to get our arses out of here, rather than squatting in our berths.’

He jabbed at the map, to the north of Somerset Isle. ‘Our rescuers…’ he started.

‘Our rescuers!’ Hodgson interjected.

‘That is enough!’ Crozier commanded. ‘Aye, it is well known Sir John did not see the need to make provision for such events. He organised no rescue should we vanish into time. But there are those we _can_ rely on, who know these lands and their perils and who will have taken the initiative to make inroads for our survival.’

‘Who then, if the Admiralty made no provision?’

‘The Admiralty are naïve to the realities of this place,’ Crozier growled, ‘They sit in their fine rooms and sup their port whilst pointing at maps they have ne’er made themselves. Sending men and boys to their deaths in these wastes to win them glory…’

‘Francis,’ a hand on his arm. James let the mask of authority slip long enough to catch his eye and still his ire. They had spoken of this. Crozier was to give way.

 ‘What the Captain means,’ James explained, ‘is that it is most likely the Admiralty has not mounted an expedition to find us as they are certain we have yet two years supply to keep us fed. Sir John had indicated as much before we set off and such was his faith in us all, he left the Admiralty at ease in themselves about our fate.’

Crozier bristled by his side but remained silent. There was a time for gruffness and a time for fine oration. His remaining officers did not yet see the jeopardy of their true situation, and would never see what he had, in nights before this. To be confronted with the images of their future would motivate them in all certainty but for now James’ fine words would have to play their part. Appeal to their sense of patriotism and honour, paint them as heroes, frame their coming march in plaudits and he may just win their confidence. Tell them they would all waste, sicken die if nothing was to be done and fear would become their guiding force. Fear and the denial that comes with it.

James continued.

‘The admiralty have faith in us all, and rightfully placed. We are Englishmen, and many a party has gone before us and made it home. We will be the same, God willing and guiding us. But the Admiralty does not understand our full predicament. Our supplies are spoiled, we have suffered,’ he hesitated, the only sign of his inner conflict, ‘losses. For those who have not traversed the ice it becomes easy to say we will return with ease when faced with the facts of our initial provisions and destination. I myself, am not an experienced polar explorer, I did not see the pitfalls. But now, we do, I do and my opinion has altered accordingly, theirs would too in all probability, were they privy to the facts as they are now.’

‘So who will fetch us if not the admiralty, if they are so sure we should be well?’ Hodgson pushed.

‘James Ross,’ Crozier said.

Blanky gave a gruff nod. ‘Now there’s a man who knows the ice. Cannot ask for better. Good plan all round, he’ll not let you down Frank.’

Crozier silently thanked his friend for his unwavering confidence in his decision and for the public demonstration of support.  Long ago Blanky had called him an ‘uncanny rogue,’ and when he sailed the Terror through the tiny gap that threatened to crush her in a storm that night in the South. It was deemed nothing other than short of miraculous, but he wondered then if Blanky had some inkling of his abilities. The orders he gave were followed without question and Blanky’s stalwart support had all but enabled that alone amongst the terrified men. He trusted Francis without question, even on the strangest or vaguest of notions and it gave others faith. The man ne’er said aught of course, but last night he had quick to agree to Francis’ plans for the march North.

‘James Ross?’ Hodgson asked, ‘Sir James?’

‘He was already concerned for this expedition before we set off,’ Crozier explained to the assembled men, ‘As was his uncle, Sir John. Both fine men. Both men I consider to be friends, trusted friends. And they will not let us disappear, lads. I would not be surprised if both of them take ships to try and secure us.’

‘Sir James has already stated he would not return to the ice,’ Irving remarked. Crozier looked at him kindly despite his irritation. The lad simply did not know James.

‘Aye, he made his promises to Ann, he was newly wed and he considered himself to be too old,’ he smiled, ‘Too old.. he was younger than I by years…. But I have sailed with him many times, as has Mr Blanky, and I know his character as well as my own. He is my brother in all but name and my closest friend. And he will come for us, promises be damned.’

‘You do not know this as fact,’ Hodgson argued.

‘I do,’ Crozier stated. ‘I know it to be true and I know the path he will take, through the Sound, following our route. If we move South he will not be able to follow, for the ice, if we move North, we stand a chance of encountering his men.’

‘This is folly…’ Hodgson grumbled but around the table the atmosphere of uncertainty was being slowly soothed by Croziers confident brogue. The men were falling into line, the power of the unknown somehow channelled through his voice to offer the same comfort it had shown him. He could feel it in the room, a soft blanket, a soothing balm, and around him he saw it go to work on the officers.

‘If it were him, lost for these years with no sign,’ Francis said, ‘I would follow. I would make it my goal to find him and I would know his pattern, his decisions and his choices. I would know them because they would be my own. And I would not wait until the five years were up, I would move now. By ship as far as I could, and then by foot….’

He was aware of the haze descending but its imagery was not so distressing that he could not continue his reassurance to them men.  In recent nights, and in discussion with James, he had laid down arms against the thing that haunted him and allowed it to come through unhindered. At first he shook with terror to let it take him, but with Fitzjames by his side he felt sufficiently tethered to the world to allow it entry. It was slow, the stiff corners of his mind still fighting against everything he had tried so hard to repress for so long. He could not still himself enough to let the thing ride freely, but on the third night the breath rushed from him in a sudden release as he felt it come, a gentle warm wave of feeling, sound and sight; no flames, no death, no horror. He floated on the Vision for moments only to find long minutes had passed. It was only when he felt James’s fingers brush his cheek that he knew himself to be weeping.

It had been James who spoke of it as a gift, a guide in a barren place where God had all but abandoned them. After the fire, he, said, Francis could ill afford to ignore its prophesies. For Francis, after fifty years of embattlement it was a terrifying prospect to concede to its whim, could he trust it truly? Was it merely trickery of the mind? James bathed his face and rubbed his fingers between his palms as Francis reoriented after each trip, debated the truth he had seen and the potential that some devil wished to lull him into taking wrong turns for its amusement. James swept the cloth over his jaw and listened to him with patience. At last he squeezed Francis’ hand and looked at him earnestly.

‘I see no Devil when it takes you, Francis, only beauty, if this is not God’s own work, then it is as close to it as mortal men will come. What does your own heart tell you?’

In James’ gaze there was only safety, trust and love. When he looked there his own heart felt full and calm. So it was that Francis Crozier allowed himself to fall. He listened. He watched. And the thing showed him the ships.

_Two of them, moored in Ice, but not the familiar empty masts and listing decks of Terror and Erebus. These ships would winter but once in the Sound and then continue on their way, loop the islands and return home intact. Well fed men, still keen for adventure lined their decks and in the snow that surrounded them, they loaded sledges. There were dogs, thick furred and excitable, their brush like tails high as they pranced in their harness, awaiting command. And at the centre of it all a figure studied a map, snow goggles obscuring his eyes and mittened fingers tracing the west coast of Somerset Isle._

Crozier smiled, he would know the man’s stance anywhere.

_Briefly the figure looked towards him, the hints of his dimpled grin beneath the muffler he wore. That same confidence that had seen them both through the hardships of the Antarctic, that same assuredness that all would be well._

_I will find you, Francis. I will find you._

In the Great Cabin, conclusions had been drawn and plans made. From his chair Francis watched the retreating backs of his men and felt the haze begin to lift from around him. James had stayed with him of course and was seated by his side, slowly tracing the coast of Somerset Isle on the map before him with one long finger.

For a moment the path before him felt too clear.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis reveals the nature of his relationship with James to Sophia and in the arctic the pair indulge in some flirtation.

Sophia had insisted on more tea, and the steward who had brought it had not known where to look when he arrived in Francis’ rooms at a little past 2am. A young unchaperoned lady and a weather beaten old Captain greeted him politely but offered no explanation as to why such a woman would be alone in naval quarters in the middle of the night with an unmarried man. Crozier watched dully as another dent appeared in his repute. He ought to be more concerned about hers, he supposed, but he had no desire to evict her or indeed debate etiquette with a woman who clearly was not for shifting. She cocked her eyebrow at the young man defiantly as he made his exit.

‘You will no doubt be talk of the servants’ quarters,’ she commented as the door closed.

‘My reputation already lies in tatters,’ Francis replied.

‘Then perhaps this will do it good?’ she offered. Francis narrowed his eyes at her. She ignored the modicum of his protest. ‘So,’ she said delicately applying the tongs to sugar, ‘You opted to listen to your inner voice and march North.’

‘I did.’

‘And you and James were friends at last,’

‘He will not even acknowledge me now,’ Francis said.

‘But you had grown close?’

‘We had.’

‘As brothers?’

Francis sighed. ‘That was what I told him at the beginning, on the march out. We spoke of many things and he revealed himself to me. He claimed he was a fraud, a false hero, but the truth of him led only to my increased admiration. We… bonded I suppose during those early days of the walk, we became companions.’

Sophia paused awaiting illumination. The tongs shone in the firelight. Crozier fiddled uncomfortably with his cuff. Still she waited.

‘The arctic,’ he tried, ‘That place… it… changes us. Strips away our layers, alters our views, perceptions, priorities and….’

‘And,’ she prompted.

‘And our desires,’ he finished quietly.

Sophia put down the tongs. ‘Francis,’ she said kindly. He set his jaw in the hope it would chase the heat from his cheeks. The story of his Visions was easy to tell in comparison to this.  ‘Do not retreat now,’ she repeated on sensing his discomfort.

‘How am I to tell you this, Sophia, when I do not comprehend it myself? When it is a thing I have spent half my life condemning in others? I have flogged men for less.’

 ‘I listen without judgement, Francis, I am here only to take heed and to understand.’

He shook his head, in part at her simplicity of faith, in part at the enormity of his task. To his surprise she rose from her chair and crossed to sit on the bed by his side. Sophia took his hand between hers.

‘Francis do you think I am so naïve, truly? The friendships of men have many qualities. Why, here in London there are few who are not at least aware of the inclinations of artists, poets… it is spoken of in hushed tones but well known in society to occur.’

He laughed. ‘Artists and poets have a peculiar reputation. Captains in the Discovery Service should not stand amongst their ranks.’

‘You are men, are you not? Subject to the same range of feeling. You have spoken of loneliness and hardship, Francis, of bonds made with trusted friends in the most difficult of circumstance. You have told me of a world where God would seem to have abandoned you to your Fate, where food was scarce and the climate unbearably cold. Here in London men suffer little and still they seek each another for comfort; above women, above friendship alone. Is it so unreasonable to think that you may have done the same in a place devoid of that comfort?’

‘Filth,’ Francis said harshly, ‘It is filth and I should be ashamed. In the navy we term it ‘dirtiness,’ and lash a man for his proclivities. There are rules…’

‘In the artic?’ she asked. ‘Do regulations truly have meaning there? Can you hang yourself by those rules in a land where there is no command other than Nature herself?’

‘We try to keep a sense of order…’

Sophia shook her head, ‘And now that you are home you are all too aware of what we call Order. Of what others may think when there is time for arbitrary regulations.  Here you are subject to the pressure of your perceived position in the eyes of your superiors. Here we place such value on these things but there, it _was_ different there, Francis. I see that.’

‘Then why do I not _feel_ differently now?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Why is this…. _Need_ still with me?’ Sophia’s eyes widened with the strength of his passion even as he felt his own eyes burn. He covered his face with one hand so that she might not see but the gentle touch of her palm alerted him to her perceptiveness.

‘Oh Francis,’ she said softly, ‘I’m so sorry.’

At last her kindness undid him and all he had held back poured forth. ‘He has changed,’ he said, his voice rough, ‘All that he felt seems lost and yet I persist. My heart is heavy with loss, Sophia. Why can it not leave me as it has him? Why must I be the one to carry it? It is over. It is gone, and he moves on with his life, beyond the arctic and beyond me. And I… I… I might as well still be there.’

For shame, he was weeping fully now. He could not stop himself and Sophia leaned in, her arms coming around him as the first shudder of distress worked through him. He could feel the tears leeching into the silk of her bodice. There would be stains, salt water stains.

‘Francis…’ she soothed.

‘It was a different world, a simpler one,’ he was saying, ‘It changed me and I cannot change again. I cannot return to the man I was.’

‘You are the same man, Francis, the very same.’ He shook his head against her as she spoke. ‘I have known you many years and I know you well. The well of kindness you hold within, the insecurities which plague you, your loyalty and strength, your potential for love,’ she leaned back to look at him, ‘If you can allow yourself to feel it.’

He swiped at his eyes, ‘You cannot truly know me, Sophia, for I loved you well enough and yet did not have potential for marriage.’

She looked at him sadly.

 ‘You were not in love with me, Francis, but with the idea of me. You wanted so desperately what you felt was owed to your happiness. A wife, a home, children perhaps, a sense of belonging. But you would never have been happy, the sea is in your blood, your men were your family. I would only ever have been second to them. You did not know it then, but I did, I do.’

She raised her thumb to his cheek and began wiping away the moisture there gently. Her lips trembled with unspoken feeling, but she did not relent in her comfort of him.  

‘This,’ she said holding his gaze, ‘This now, of which you speak, is love.’

‘Love cannot persist when only one person still holds it dear,’ he sniffed, the surge of distress abating a little and leaving him embarrassed. Sophia pulled a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and he accepted it ruefully.

‘Love in its purest form, always persists,’ she said. ‘Do you really believe he does not feel the same?’

‘He has not uttered one word to me since we arrived here,’ Francis said. ‘He has returned to his old ways.’

‘Has he?’ she asked.

‘You saw him at the gala…’

‘I did.’

‘Well then.’

‘He held the audience in raptures,’ she reported, ‘And looked dashing in his uniform. There was something of a swagger to his gait and the ladies, well they found him irresistible. Charm personified. At least… to those who could not look deeper.’

Francis’ jaw spasmed and he glared at the fire. Between his fingers the delicate handkerchief threatened to rip in two.

‘What did he once say about being a fraud, Francis?’ she asked as she removed it from him.

‘That he… what does it matter now!’

‘Tell me.’

‘He needed his actions seen, he said, he was the sum of his actions… so that he might….’ Crozier frowned, ‘Live by his reputation I suppose, when beneath it all he felt was… shame,’ he stopped as a spark of realisation flared.

Sophia patted his knee and went back to her place in her chair.

‘I suspect he is as lost as you are now, Francis,’ she said. ‘You have retreated to melancholy, as is your way, and he to what he knows best. His stories and his perfectly turned out appearance, playing to the gallery. For that is all it is, an appearance, a glamour, an act. Do you really think the man you knew could so easily forget the experiences you shared?’

‘I… I know not,’ Francis said.  ‘But he need not hide, from me of all people! Surely his propensity for covering his shame is not reason to so turn on me? I, who share it with him? I who shared everything?’

‘Perhaps not,’ Sophia said, ‘Perhaps there is more to his thoughts and to this ‘change’ he simulates. But it begins in part the explanation. Tell me more about him. Let us divine his truth. Tell me…’ she considered for a spell, ‘How you came to love him.’

He blushed and then when she said no more allowed himself to be transported back to those first days. Despite himself, Crozier smiled.

 

 

He could feel James watching him as they walked, the breeze slight, but biting against his cheeks. There was still snow afoot, but beneath that the uneven texture of rock could be felt after miles of hard hauling over ice. Crozier tugged his muffler higher, as much to hide his growing smile as to shield his face. Whether it was a buoyancy of mood associated with the loss of prior whiskey dampening his demeanour, or another reason entirely, there was an assured spring to his step he barely remembered having in his twenties. He felt ten years younger, which made absolutely no sense whatsoever given their current trials. But he would take it. Take it and run. Hopefully all the way to Ross’ ship.

James shook his head beside him and chuckled, a air of constant bemusement lingering around him.

‘You are irrepressible today, Francis, are you sure you are well?’

A snort. ‘You assume I must be ill to bear good cheer?’

‘Well frankly, yes…’

‘I put it down to our inactivity of late, and the bracing air,’ Francis replied, arching his brows above the muffler, ‘It does us good to be moving, both in terms of rescue and in terms of the men’s spirits.’

‘And _your_ spirits apparently,’ James grinned.

‘Aye and that. I have been cooped up in that cabin far too long.’ Francis hopped over a low rocky outcrop and waited for James to catch up in a few strides, his second laughing all the while at his uncharacteristic energy.

‘Really Francis for such a dour Celt you are in your element today!’

‘Dour?!’

‘Dour. And disagreeable,’ he declared as they marched on.

‘Nobody is making you accompany me James, you could have stayed by the camp.’

‘I cannot let you out of my sight, dear man, you may get up to mischief.’

‘You may trust me to behave,’ he said gravely.

‘I trust you implicitly Francis,’ James shot him a sideways glance. Francis smirked.

‘Then why do you insist on ferrying me thusly?’ he said, ‘In fact you were first to volunteer for this route!’

‘Well as we know, I am terribly good at walking,’ James said seriously. Francis caught the twinkle in his eyes.

‘There must be some ulterior motive,’ he said in mock suspicion.

‘Or something must be drawing me to you…’ James countered. ‘Like an irresistible force,’ he flung open his arms and mimed them being pulled together like magnets, in a dramatic gesture reminiscent of his old story telling habits.

Francis chuckled. ‘I have hidden depths perhaps…’

‘Very hidden.’ James commented, ‘But I begin to reveal them now, beginning with unaccountable good humour and uncanny joviality. It is most alarming.’

Francis laughed, full and hard, muffler dipping to reveal the gap-toothed smile he was normally so self-conscious of.

James’ cheeks dimpled as he watched, ‘God help us all,’ he joked. ‘Come now, enough distraction,’ he pointed to their goal, ‘The mission lies before us.’

Ahead Francis could make out the team of men he had sent that morning to build the cairn. They had started in darkness but now, as the sun grasped the sky for its few faint hours, their figures moved rhythmically to and from the growing pile, stacking rocks as high as their shoulders. Unlike Sir John, Francis had every intention of leaving markers of their passage across the ice. This was the first Cairn;  just inland of the Island, and which each two dozen miles north they managed he would order another built.

To business then. His mood tempered a touch at the thought. He could so easily forget when with James alone, the weight of it all, the lives of his men, but when faced with the practicalities, when faced with them heaving rocks into position so he might leave some trace of their journey for a longed for recue party it felt a good deal more bleak than he liked to admit. No, he must not think that way, the rescue would come. It would come. He had seen it, had he not? As surely as he saw the fire, and that had come to pass. Surely this thing could predict good fortune as well as tragedy.

‘Now James, tell me you have the ink,’ he asked as they approached.

‘I do,’ he rummaged in his bag. ‘Ah it’s rather cold,’ and he secreted it in his jacket to warm by his skin. Francis repressed the urge to roll his eyes, he could do without having to defrost the writing implements in James’ armpit.

‘And paper?’ he chivvied.

James froze and slowly raised his eyes to his commander.

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake James!’

James whipped a sheet from the bag with a playful smile. ‘Of course. Do you wish me to write, you may dictate if you wish?’

‘Well no doubt your hand is neater than mine,’ Crozier said glancing at the men behind him as they finished their work. He noted how pale they seemed in the daylight.

‘My spelling is a good deal better too,’ James said.

Francis glowered at him and at the dig at his limited schooling. It had always been something of which he had been ashamed. A few months before he would have taken the whole thing quite personally and probably half drowned himself in whiskey to have it highlighted that he had any kind of intellectual inadequacy in comparison with James’ education. Somehow however, he found it mattered very little now.

‘Go on then, scribe,’ Francis said.

‘Well turn around.’

‘What?’ he squinted at him and watched James motion for him to spin.

‘Brace yourself against the rocks I must lean on something.’

‘Well lean on the bloody rocks,’

‘They are too…’ James gestured with the quill in an obscenely refined manner for a dishevelled man in dirty slops, ‘Uneven… I need something solid.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, fine, but make it brief.’ Francis turned and leaned against the growing cairn with both hands as James came to stand beside him. He smoothed the paper over his back and pinned it with the press of his ungloved fingers. Crozier could barely feel it through the multiple layers of slops and uniform but was acutely aware of the touch.

‘February, 21st, 1848,’ James intoned scratching with the nib. Francis exhaled. He’d probably end up writing his magnum opus just to keep him in this uncomfortable position longer. There was the odd sensation of more scratching and some mumbling as James filled in the latitude, longitude and positions of the ships, camp and cairn. Then he filled in their tale. ‘Sir John Franklin died, 11th June 1847, 24 total dead. Captain FRM Crozier now in command of expedition and of HMS _Terror_ , Commander…’

‘Captain,’

‘Well…’

‘You’ve been promoted.’

‘Only by default. I’m the spare remember.’

‘ _James_. You were never the spare, that was I. Put Captain.’

A sigh. ‘ _Captain_ James Fitzjames of HMS _Erebus_. Supplies low,’ a beat, ‘Both ships abandoned, 17 th February 1848. We march North along the West Coast of Somerset Isle….’ A pause during which Francis knew James was trying to calculate the direction, never one of his strongpoints, ‘In search of rescue. God have mercy upon us all….’ Seconds ticked by, then, ‘Do you wish to add anything Francis?’

He thought for a moment, the implications of what they were doing made somehow starker by the action of applying words to paper. If they vanished, those words would be all that was left. Maybe he should have gone South. Maybe that optimistic vision was folly after all. But he had chosen now, persuaded the men and officers. They had already walked twenty miles in good faith and he could not be seen to swither now. Even if had condemned them to a thousand more miles North _towards_ the cold. There would be mutiny. Christ.

Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier, what are you doing?

He closed his eyes and waited, conscious of James pressed against his side, still holding the paper in place. ‘Only my signature,’ he said at last.

‘Very good,’ James said, and Francis felt the hand slide from his back.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys grow closer.  
> Fluff fluff fluff.... doom on the horizon... but fluff for now.

When James arrived that night at two bells past middle watch, Francis had feared ill news.

It was bitterly cold, a statement which hardly needed making as winter continued to ravage the landscape around their camp, but tonight a high wind had moved blizzards across the wastes and halted their progress for two days. It howled cruelly around the tents and forced the men to huddle in piles within. Crozier had lain awake, secreted as best he could be in the sleeping sack, fully dressed and half tempted to layer his slops over it too in a futile attempt to generate any warmth, but of course the things were as damp and chill as he was.  He shivered, unable to quell the reflex sufficiently to fall asleep.

He was lucky he supposed that he had a cot of any kind to keep him suspended above the rocks, most of them men must deal with their edges digging into backs and joints, but he was certain that soon he would dispense with the wooden frame. It would mean less to haul. His mind roved over their situation for the hundredth time that day. This week as he walked, hauled and ate he had debated scenarios and plans for escape, and by night it was no different. Even when all he could do was wait for the wind to die and the snow to stop falling, he sought opportunity everywhere, questioned his decisions and scrutinised inventories, the health of his men, and  the whereabouts of the beast.

Eventually he had given up on rest, and as he could not sleep he might as well spend the small hours planning things in his mind; discarded charts on the ground by the cot and an oil lamp close by. It guttered, miserable in the wind which managed to claw its way beneath the edge of the tent, and then threatened to blow out entirely as a frozen blast whipped a map back against the cot.

Crozier looked up.

‘Good evening, Francis, sorry to disturb,’ James secured the canvas back in position best he could and stood swiping snow from his slops. Had he been outside it would have been difficult to tell man from environment, so plastered was he by huge flakes and ice.

‘Good God, James, is all well?’ Crozier levered himself up on one elbow, ‘The men?’ he moved as though he might spring forward for the pistol that lay on the table beside him. ‘Tis not the beast is it?’

‘All is well,’ James motioned for him to lay back, ‘Do not stir yourself.’

Francis remained where he was but did not recline. He raised an eyebrow. After a pause he addressed the obvious question.

‘Is there a reason you are standing there?’

James chuckled but it was a small noise of embarrassment and uncertainty beneath a confident mask. He turned his face a little, wiped some snow from his cheek and tried to free himself from his muffler with stiff gloved fingers.

‘Well, I had a notion…’

‘This notion could not wait until morning?’

‘No the whole purpose of my notion is… besides I saw your lamp,’ James confessed, ‘and I know your habits Francis, you do not sleep well. Half these nights you have taken watch yourself.’

Francis harrumphed and lay back at last, ‘Well I may as well be useful in my sleeplessness,’ he said, ‘And if that thing dares enter this camp I should like to be the one to blast its head clean off its shoulders.’

James kicked at the ground, more ice fell from his boots.

‘It is very cold,’ he remarked.

Francis regarded him in amusement, ‘You have come here to tell me it is cold?’

‘Well… yes, in part.’ James wrapped his arms around his slops and rocked back on his heels a touch. He shivered.

‘James, what…?’ Francis started and then hesitated. James still would not look at him but seemed instead to be desperately interested in a line of stitching to the right of the tent flap. Then he gazed at the ground, then at his gloves, anywhere but Francis.

‘You know the men in a way are rather lucky,’ James started vaguely, ‘I passed by their tents on my way here, a great snoring mass of bodies, it got me to thinking….’

‘Oh?’

‘We have few resources at our fingertips now, and there are things to be said for sleeping on masse that way. It is wise when faced with such bitter cold to… to…’ he gestured vaguely, ‘Make best use of what warmth is available… between men.’

Francis’ eyes widened.

‘You have done so before of course?’ James asked quickly.

‘Done what before?’ Crozier tried to steady the anxiety in his voice, but his pitch came out too high.

‘In the Antarctic before, or indeed in these parts? As a younger officer? I have read of the need to share a sack?’  James looked at him openly, the merest hint of elevation to his brows in challenge.

‘I have wintered many times in such climes, James, it was quite standard to share a tent with others, sometimes a sack,’ Francis confessed.  He watched James swallow. ‘But that was many years ago, as one climbs the ranks one attains certain privileges. One’s own quarters,’ he gestured around him, ‘Private but…’

‘Bloody freezing,’ James finished. ‘It’s bloody freezing, Francis, private or no. That damn wind has been tearing through the tent so as its walls might not even exist. I cannot get comfortable at all, let alone get any rest, and you, Francis are the same.’

‘I am quite comfortable, thank you.’

‘Are you indeed? Then why are you awake?’ James probed, ‘In full uniform.’

Instinctively Francis tugged the edge of the sack higher as if it might obscure his blue jacket from view. James cocked at eyebrow.

‘You are as frozen as I,’ James declared, ‘And the time for standing on ceremony is not now. I propose we sleep two to a sack and be done with it.’

‘James!’

‘Well… why not?’

‘Because..’ Francis floundered, ‘Because it is improper, because we are the leaders of this expedition and we cannot be found to be curled together of a morning in a single bedspace!’

James pursed his lips. ‘I have only suggested we share that bedspace, Francis not cocoon ourselves in an embrace.’

His cheeks burned. The image of him resting his head on James’ shoulder scurried from his mind in shame. God dammit just where had that notion come from? He must retreat from this farcical idea and retain his honour. What would the men think if they were to be discovered? Quickly he groped for some rational by which to dismiss James.

 ‘We will adapt, in time,’ he tried, ‘You are just unused to how bitter it can be. And I admit I am rather out of practice here. It is long years since I slept on the ice and while perhaps a decade or more ago I seemed almost impervious to its hardships I do admit, I am a little uncomfortable, but….’

‘Ah!’ James cried triumphantly, ‘Even you, the arctic veteran complain!’

‘I merely concede that I feel the cold,’ Crozier said, ‘I would not dare to complain.’

‘A fine quality in a leader, but you may complain to me, Francis… I am your confidante.’

‘It would not do to make complaint when the men must suffer in the same way as I, we… must.’

‘Bu this is my point, Francis, they suffer less for having each other…  I passed by Blanky tucked up in his bag sound asleep against some unfortunate Mate,’ James commented, ‘His bloody beard is frozen and he’s chortling and twitching away to himself like a contented snoozing hound!’

Crozier chuckled. The image was too accurate.  ‘Mr Blanky has a peculiar ability to nap anywhere, James. I have shared a sack with him.’

‘Did you get any rest?’

‘Not a great deal, he is rather fidgetsome, but he was warm at least….’

‘I fidget less.’ James declared proudly and despite himself Crozier laughed.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘I am a gentleman,’ James replied. ‘Gentlemen do not fidget.’ There was that damn twinkle in his eye once more.

‘I suppose you don’t snore either.’

‘Certainly not!’ but he was teasing him now, the line of his mouth twitching in merriment. Crozier could feel himself being played with but somehow the warmth from James humour alone was thawing him.

‘I suppose…’ he began, wondering how he might concede to the idea without a complete loss of decorum, but James began unfastening his slops, stopping Francis mid proclamation. He watched in silence as the man’s jacket and waistcoat came away, revealing his fine arms and slim waist. James looked at him curiously.

‘Francis?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Jacket?’

‘What?’

‘Well… remove it man!’

‘I am barely tepid with it on, James.’

‘Down to your linens.’

‘Excuse me?’ he blustered. Just who in hell did James think he was speaking to in such a manner? ‘I may have acquiesced to this debacle, but I will not have my commander order me out of my… what is so amusing you James?’

Fitzjames stifled his laughter and peeled off his heavy woollen jumper. ‘Your outrage, Francis, I have not ordered you naked, man, you are not a blushing girl. If we are to make any use of one another’s’ warmth we must dispense with five layers of damp wool leeching it from us, is that not so?’

Damn him. Mustering as much protest as he could Francis clumsily unbuttoned his coat and waistcoat beneath leaving him in his shirt. James sat on the cot to remove his boots and in the process shoved Crozier over, ‘Stop grumbling,’ he was told.

‘Well hurry it up, it has taken me an hour to garner as much heat as I have, and it is leaving me.’

‘You will be warm enough in a moment,’ and with that James clambered in.

They lay awkwardly side my side, an almost impossible feat on the narrow cot, but one that last only a minute before James, tugging and pulling on the sack spun to his right and adopted the foetal position.

‘Francis,’ he said impatiently.

‘What?’

‘You cannot lie like that.’

‘I can lie anyway I wish. It is my bed.’

‘You will have the bar of the cot in your side.’

‘It does not worry me.’

James looked over his shoulder at him, ‘For Christ’s sake man, I shall have no solace from you at all this way, move in!’

Crozier had done this before, at both North and South, and thought little of it at the time. Blanky’s snoring form and others were in general unagreeable, but the warmth they emitted was a constant lure and he had found himself front to back or otherwise entangled on many an occasion. It was a necessary evil and tolerated well enough amongst the men. Jokes were made, barriers lowered, particular preferences for companions made and sought out. When faced with the cold one did what was needed to survive. This was no different, _should_ be no different.

Somehow however the prospect of draping one arm over his second filled him with an undefined sense of panic. They were Captains, he told himself, there were standards to maintain, standards and dignity.  It would be an impropriety surely, to curl his body around James, press knees to thighs and chest to back? James shifted beside him as though reading his fears, his long legs seeking out Francis’ heat, but he refused to let himself respond.

He had ordered the men do just this two nights ago when the blizzard was at its worst. Two to a sack, eight or ten to a tent. For warmth and he knew, for comfort in the darkness.  When fear was at its highest human presence and touch did much to abate it. He had ordered it and watched his men sleep soundly since. So, was there really any harm in doing the same?

‘Francis,’ James said again, lower this time. He heard the cot creak as his companion leaned over and extinguished his lamp, and when he moved back he seemed to move closer. In the dark the feeling of anxiety only grew as Crozier’s senses tuned into the sound of James’ breath and the feeling of each movement of his body against him. He could chart the expansion of his ribcage deep and regular and the tiny insistent movements of his spine and hips against Francis side as he tried to persuade him to provide him with warmth.

It was just a sleeping arrangement. Just a practicality.  Francis closed his eyes and bit his lip. The jumble of nerves in the pit of his stomach trickled lower. What in hells name was this, such arrangements had never affected him this way before. The sharp feeling tweaking at his nerves, the way his hands and arms seemed to ache in need at the prospect of the man next to him.

‘Must I do everything?’ James said suddenly, half turning with one arm over Francis chest as though he would make to spin and embrace him fully. The movement caused the panic to flare and as though to prevent them coming face to face in the darkness Francis’s body finally gave way to James’ urging and twisted over. He found himself wrapped around James back at last.

‘Thank you,’ James said, and pulled Francis’ hand over to hold it against his chest. 

They rested, Crozier counting the beats of the pulse under his palm, but the tension in his muscles was unbearable and apparently James could sense it. Methodically he rubbed Crozier’s hand, the slow circle of his thumb over his knuckles until at last the tendons loosened and he could work on his arm in long smooth strokes. His tender ministrations were aided by the heat from his body seeping through their linens, a blessed melting warmth against Francis chest and stomach, the backs of James thighs against his own.

Francis shifted closer and allowed his arm to tighten around his solid human contact. The anxiety lessened, the trickle of nerves softened and the sharp alarm he had felt metamorphized slowly into a hum of pleasant warmth in his gut. He allowed himself the luxury of gentle intermittent movement against James’ body, seeking more contact and the assurance of welcome. It was a novelty to be embraced so and to feel no resistance. Finally, with his nose pressed against the nape of James’ neck he let go a sigh and was rewarded by the soft squeeze of James hand over his wrist.

‘You are warm Francis?’ a whisper

‘Mmm,’

‘You feel like a furnace,’ the voice smiled.

His eyes were heavy, the darkness around them opaque and in that moment the whole of the world existed only in that sleeping sack. The rocks, the snow, the thing that stalked them, were all so far away. Only the sound of the wind reached his ears, but its limbs failed to touch his skin. God he could stay there forever, oblivious to every responsibility, oblivious to time as it ticked by and the soothing rub of James’ palm over his fingers seemed to slow. Francis focused on the heartbeat under his hand, and dreams were taking him at last when he felt the soft press of lips against his fingers. Too far gone to comment, too comforted to make protest, Crozier slept.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More snuggles, and finally James and Francis take the next step.  
> But don't forget the ominous and the angst. Lots more to come there...

At a little past three Crozier had excused himself for a moment and stepped out of his rooms; by the time he returned he found Sophia curled in the chair sound asleep. He debated with himself as to whether it would be wise to wake her but feeling suddenly weary on his own part retreated to his spot on the bed, whereupon folding his arms across his chest and intending only to doze, he slipped into merciful unconsciousness.

Distant church bells woke him and with them came a wave of melancholy. His companion was silent.

The fire had burned out and once again his walls were bathed in the grey dawn of winter, but it must have been later than he suspected if the bells were already calling worshippers. Crozier closed his eyes once more and lay still; his sleep had been dreamless, and he had no wish to trigger the Visions upon waking. He would lay there until luncheon if permitted, avoiding dressing, washing, shaving. Avoiding the mirror by the washstand.

Each day he had been confronted by the face, what he would give for one morning where he need not see it. The thing made no sense, it was not of the past nor of the future; it was James and yet when he looked at the man now, it was clear that it was not. What purpose did this Vision hold but to torment him with the dying visage of the man he loved, speaking in riddles, when the man he loved yet lived and would not speak? Of all that Francis had seen, now only this image remained, but for why, he had no answer. He tried to empty his mind. He would sleep again and escape it all.

Sadly, a movement and a warm presence beside him reminded him that in this brave new civilised world, he could not lay undetected and sullen and that at some point soon he would be expected to wake, continue with his story or worse venture to tea, although he would be spared anything too daunting or public given it was Sunday.  He supposed however Sophia would drag him to her home, and God help him Lady Franklin’s home too, and that felt like a good deal more than he could bear. Particularly as her niece had not returned at all from the gala and spent the night in Crozier’s bed. He winced.

She must have crept onto the edge of the mattress before dawn, and gradually as bed partners were wont to do he had discovered of late, claimed more of the space as the hours ticked by. Now she was pressed against him, curled on her side, with her head on his chest and her hand tucked under her chin. Her delicate fingers had threaded their way through the gaps in his shirt, he could feel them moving amongst the hair there as she roused. Lady Franklin would be puce with outrage if she could see them now. He wondered idly how Sir John himself might have reacted. James had maintained he had felt regret, close to the end, in keeping the couple apart, but James, Francis assumed, was merely trying to be kind to the pitiful man Crozier had become through heartbreak and drink. Sir John had never felt Francis good enough for Sophia. A middle born drunken Irish melancholic with few prospects. Now he had at least removed the drink from his list of vices, but he had added one so much worse that he was certain Sir John was actively spinning in his icy grave to see his niece asleep in Crozier’s sinful embrace.

Well he need not worry, Francis had no intentions towards her now.

A year ago, maybe even less, his heart would have leapt with joy to feel Sophia Cracroft against him, alone in his rooms and half undressed, but his heart remained flat. His body, however, he noted with irritation, responded much as he would have expected it to in days gone by.  His arm had moved around her naturally in sleep and beneath his fingers he could feel that she had loosened her bodice and corset best she could without her maid.  The lacings were slack, the heat of her skin tickled his palm, and lower down his body he could feel her legs wrapped around his, through voluminous petticoats. She was flush against him, her steady breathing a damp heat against his skin, and he was hard, desperately so, to feel such intimacy. But it was not her intimacy he sought. He wished he could get away.

Not, as he told himself, for her reputation’s sake, nor for his as a gentleman. Not because he was tempted in any way, although the throb in his groin might argue with that line of thought, and not for a sense of shame at being found prick forward and aroused by his friend, she had after all, seen all of that before, used it for her pleasure and discarded him. She could hardly be shocked at what lay in his trousers or at a man’s tendency to grow stiff of a morning. No, he simply wanted this feeling to pass, it was not one he associated now with her, and it pained him. Slowly he tried to extract himself from her hold but in doing so her hand trailed to his stomach, freezing him in his attempt to escape.

Briefly Francis closed his eyes and confirmed to himself that he was indeed as much of an aberration of nature as he had suspected. At last he was entwined with a woman he had spent nigh on ten years pining for and instead of leaping upon her as the opportunity presented he was instead trying to remove her touch in preference for the memory of another altogether more masculine one. In a cruel twist of Fates, all her presence did was remind him of _that_ desire, of James.

He bit his lip and looked across at the washstand and the glass thereby, suddenly wishing the James he saw there, whichever version he might be, would appear. The grey London sky swirled in the mirror’s corners, seeming for all the world like a gateway to a previous time.  If he could seize it, if he could step through that glass, he would find him. Laying then where she was now, soft breath against his skin, and a hand caressing him in leisure.  The cold sky would run grey with arctic storm clouds but there would be no more of this sadness. Unable to wake Sophia, not wishing to explain away his tears, Francis watched the mirror.

‘Come back to me,’ he whispered. ‘Be to me now as you were then.’

The surface of the mirror shimmered.

 

Four weeks into the march Crozier had finally become used to James’ requests for comfort at the end of each day. He no longer asked, simply made his way as discreetly as possible to the Captain’s tent once Jopson had settled him for the night and departed to sleep in with the other stewards. Crozier would leave the lamp on to guide Fitzjames and dowse it only on his arrival. For his part, James would slip out at dawn, or volunteer for an early watch, but the hours of night were theirs, to sleep, or discuss their plans, or merely to lay in companionable silence as the cold crept under the edges of the tent. Each night as Francis drifted, he would feel James’ touch, but ne’er commented for fear of what it meant.

 In the day he was occupied. Good progress had been made on their journey and although the men began to show signs of sickness, spirits remains reasonable in camp. Supplies were dwindling but a Vision had pointed Crozier in the direction of game and he hoped they would reach it within days. He had informed James of this tonight and the man had nodded distractedly as he unfastened his waistcoat, his unconditional faith in Francis’ recently revealed ability rendering him absolute in his belief of the news. In response, Crozier had ceased to question for the most part what the Visions depicted. To do so only caused him anguish and in truth, without their guidance he would be lost under the weight of his care.

James slid into the sleeping sack tiredly and extinguished the lamp. Crozier turned onto his side in the hope James would pick up on the hint and embrace him, it was in his mind, about time Fitzjames took his turn, having been wrapped warmly in Crozier’s arms for the best part of their month’s share.  He wriggled backwards until he bumped James with his hip. He heard him snort.

‘Is that a request, old man?’ James said.

Crozier tried to keep the smile from his voice, ‘What if it is?’

‘It is usual to ask one’s bed partner…’

‘I _am_ asking,’

The sack rustled and James’ arm fastened about him, first hitching up the shirt that separated them so that his skin might sear hotly into Francis’ back. Crozier hummed; James moved still closer, enclosing him. The draught still edged under the canvas but tonight it would not tickle at his neck; he could feel James’ jaw there in its place. Reflexively he brought his palm up to capture James’ hand, clasped it beneath his chin and dragged his stubble against the fingertips.

‘Quite comfortable there?’ James queried as he nuzzled in.

‘Be quiet.’ Francis stiffened warily and released his hand.

‘You’re a master of sweet nothings,’ James observed.

‘Go to sleep.’

James pressed his long nose against Francis neck and tickled the hair there with his breath. Francis twitched. ‘Must you do that?’ he protested.

‘I must,’ James said lowly, ‘Do you find it so unpleasant?’

No, no in truth he did not, but he could hardly tell his second that. ‘Go to sleep,’ he said again. James seemed to consider for a moment and then, the warm nudge of his nose just below Crozier’s right ear this time. Francis made a grumbling sound.

James chuckled. ‘Were you e’er this way with your sweethearts, Francis?’

Francis’s eyes slammed open. ‘What?’

‘So tricky to… encourage,’ James said obliquely.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You know,’ James stated.

In a flood, the hum of anxiety in his guts, the trickle of arousal.  With a good deal of effort to normalise the sleeping arrangements he had managed to quell it over days and weeks but now it returned unbidden. As if privy to it James’ hand now pressed hotly against his stomach and began to cautiously follow it down.

‘What in the God Dammed!’

‘Shhh.’

‘James!’

A sigh and the hand relented. James turned and lay on his back. A blast of cold air made itself known in the sleeping sack and Francis shivered involuntarily as it crept up his now bare skin. He tugged his shirt back down angrily.

‘I cannot fathom you, Francis,’ James was saying, an edge of irritation to his tone. ‘I cannot tell what it is you want from me.’

‘What I..? Francis spun in the sack to face him, ‘What in Hell’s name makes you think I want _that_?’

In the dim light James dark eyes flicked sideways to him. ‘Any number of things Francis, at least when you are drowsy… there are times you are almost affectionate.’

He sat up quickly. ‘What I do in my sleep I…. how dare you! I have no control over..’

‘Oh, for God’s sake Francis I’m not accusing you of sodomy! Merely of a certain warmth, is that so terrible?’

‘Yes!’

‘Well that’s not how it seems at the time.’ James folded his hands over his stomach and gazed at the walls of the tent. Crozier fumed. He found himself torn between hauling on his jacket to storm out of the tent and flinging himself back down into the warmth of the sack. It was bitterly cold and although the dramatic gesture seemed perfectly justifiable he could also feel his extremities beginning to freeze even now, when fuelled by his anger.

‘Lie down,’ James said coolly, damnably perceptive as ever, ‘you’ll freeze us both.’

Fine. Fine, so be it. Crozier curled down on his side with all the impetuosity he could muster. He lay listening to his own harsh breathing for a few minutes. James had not returned to his former position and now he felt unsettled, very awake and cold.  Well he would just have to manage.

‘You and Miss Cracroft,’ James said from nowhere.

What in Hell?

‘There was some intimacy I believe?’

‘Damn you James, that is none of your business.’

A chuckle. ‘That must be an affirmative, Francis.’

Crozier sighed, rubbed his hands together for warmth and cupped them under his arms.

‘I sometimes wonder how anything developed between you at all you are so… prickly,’ James commented.

‘Be quiet you insolent…’

‘And yet you are so very warm, beneath it all,’ James finished thoughtfully, ‘So very easy to love.’

Francis let out a short harsh laugh. ‘No-one has e’er found me that, James…’

‘Miss Cracroft is not the best example,’ James said, ‘from what I heard she was a lady who always had one eye on her station, much influenced by Sir John, and by the vanities ladies are prone to…’

‘I will not have you speak of her unkindly.’

‘I do not, I only suggest that… perhaps she did not see the best of you, on land, between voyages, uncomfortable as you were with high society, and with people there in general...’

Francis allowed himself to relax a little, he could not argue with that.

‘But others must have,’ James probed, ‘In the past I mean? Loved you?’ Francis felt him turn his head towards him in the darkness. An anchor of weight grew in the pit of his stomach. He kept quiet. ‘You are a good man, Francis, a kind man, for all your sea roughened edges, I can imagine you to be quite tender… in the right circumstance.’

‘I have no experience of such things James.’

‘No?’ the question held a forced lightness.

‘James I have been at sea since I was a lad. I ne’er settled on land.’

‘There were times you were In Ordinary Francis, as we all have been…’

He was glad of the dark, he could feel his cheeks burning, though for why he was not sure. It was not so unusual was it for a man to have been at sea all his days, ne’er to have had a proper sweetheart.  There was no opportunity or time, for one, at least that was how he saw it, what he told himself on lonely nights.  Francis chewed at his lip, considering some way of deflecting James’ curiosity.

‘It was ne’er my interest,’ he tried. ‘I had my career…’

‘And yet you pursued Miss Cracroft ardently enough?’ again that light tone to his query.

‘She… gave me reason to think…’ Francis shut his eyes. ‘Her actions… I believed that she…’

‘Wanted you?’

Aye, there it was. High born young ladies didn’t do what she did unless they had already decided to follow the relationship onto marriage. He had made assumptions and, it had turned out, he had been quite wrong about that. But by God in that moment he had loved her, when what he felt was an opportunity to demonstrate love finally came, it had poured from him in earnest, decades of ardour he had been to shy too demonstrate, given permission at last. Or so he had thought.

‘Well, she didn’t, as turns out,’ was all he said out loud.

‘And there were no others?’ James said.

‘No,’

‘I understand.’

Francis hesitated, unsure of the implication of his words. He half glanced over his shoulder at James’ profile.

‘There is no shame in it,’ James said. ‘A good many naval men are restricted to doxies and whorehouses, such is the nature of the position.’

Crozier’s jaw clenched, ‘I relinquished them years ago… if you must know.’

‘For Miss Cracroft?’

‘For… mine own sake,’ he admitted, ‘It was… humiliating.’

‘Yours is too sensitive a nature for these places,’ James agreed.  Francis felt the anger simmer again.

‘What are you implying?’

‘Nothing… nothing… sleep Francis.’

‘No, I will not sleep!’ he turned over to face Fitzjames. ‘Just what in Christ’s name is this all about?’

James bridled, ‘Can you not tell? Truly Francis you are more thick-headed than even I give you credit for.’

‘And you are impertinent beyond all measure to question me of my relations when it is nothing to you!’

‘Nothing to me? How truly can you say that? Francis are you totally blind? You lay there in misery,  telling me of your  lost opportunities when I present to you an opportunity right now, here, between us, for all the tenderness you crave, and yet you rebuke me!’

Francis stared at him. ‘You… you… I should have you flogged for such remarks, James!’

‘Do not fall back on your regulations now, Francis! It is fear alone that stops you, and not a fear of court martial, but one of rejection!’

‘What you suggest is dirtiness, James and I will not hear of it…’

‘What I suggest is comfort, man! And heaven knows there is little of it enough here!’

Silence tumbled forth. The wind blew against the canvas and distantly the coughs of men were carried to them on the breeze. Alone, and yet not, James hushed his tone.

‘We are at the ends of the earth here, Francis. We do not know what lays ahead, only that our greatest hope appears to lie with images cast up in dreams alone. And while I place my utmost faith in you, I am afraid, we are all afraid. These may be our last days, Francis.’

‘No, James, we will live, we will make it home.’

Fitzjames turned at last so that they may face one another in the dark. Every contour of his face was edged in black.

‘Do you know what you would see if I were to light that lamp now,’ James said.

‘Do not speak in riddles.  I would see you, James,’

‘Would you, Francis? For I am a poor shadow of what I once was. My uniform hangs loosely, and my skin is pale but for the bruises which now bloom on my flesh. I bleed, you have seen it, from the very hair upon my head. We march on, and we make progress, and there is still hope, but so much hunts us. The Beast, the Ice, our vanishing supplies. This Sickness. For it is Sickness, I speak of, and it is within me already.’

‘James, do not speak this way,’ but he would be heard. He felt him take his hands.

‘Our world is so far away, Francis, and all who may condemn us are out of reach.  God himself does not watch o’er us. Each day you and I grow faster, I have come to need you as my closest friend, my brother, my captain; for care, companionship, and hope. And I would care for you, just the same, I would give you what you seek, Francis, what you have always sought and so long been denied. I would love you, now, comparing you to no other, finding only strength in you, absolving all fear. I would love you Francis, without condition, and give you comfort, if you would only allow yourself to do the same.’

He felt James’ lips at his fingertips again, only this time he reached without thought to cup the face behind them. There was wetness on the cheeks and he smoothed it away with his thumbs, his fingers reaching up in James’ hairline. No blood, in the dark he would see no blood. He felt James’ half sigh against his skin as he pulled him closer.

‘I will,’ Crozier said.

 In a moment Francis was pressed full against him, and the kiss was long and desperate. James held him fast, the pressure of his tongue opening his mouth to him, the grip of his fingers at first upon his arms and then tugging hard at the shirt with which he had only just covered himself. He let it peel away, a torrid urgent need to feel the other’s skin burning him. There was a tingle of cold and then James’ torso was against him, an unmistakable hardness pressed into his thigh.

Francis’ breath left him, arousal spasmed and then James’ hand was caressing his chest, tugging at the hair he found there, moving mercilessly lower, a brand of heat on the wall of his abdomen, at the hem of his linens. Relentless need consumed both and Francis’ hips jerked. He grasped James’ back and buttocks, pulled him harder against him, drove the rigid shape of his cock against the crease of his thigh.

Hot breath hit his neck as James broke the kiss, fumbling his way into Francis’ woollen undergarments, his own need rutting against Crozier’s hip.  A hand came around Francis’ prick, warm, firm, stroking upwards, trailing a thumb over the straining head as Francis stifled a grunt against a bare shoulder, his hands finally working to reciprocate in kind and James’ low moan sending sparks of pleasure through his trembling muscles.

He tried to keep quiet, he tried to keep control, but James was coming apart before him, each caress rendering him helpless with need, redoubling back, though touch and sound and a mess of sensation. He had been alone so long, so long, and James knew it, felt it, coaxed him from his hidden world as a white haze of pleasure fell behind his eyes, so brilliant, so bright -

In minutes it was over, passion given way to the thick silence of relief. A blanket of calm settled over Crozier and he wondered briefly if he dreamed. If it was a dream, it was a happy one. And if it were a Vision he prayed it would come to pass unchanged. The feeling of safety was so long lost and so sweet to have.

Half fading Crozier felt James trail his fingers through his hair and adjust the sack around them. He rolled slightly and motioned Francis to close in, head on his shoulder, so that he might hold him while he slept; so that Francis could count the beats of his heart as he did every night.  

Every now and then they stuttered.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Tell me, Sophia, if you saw a man commit murder, would you demand justice?’
> 
> It all starts to go wrong in the arctic. Can Francis really trust the Visions, and are his men losing faith? Is James sicker than he seems and is Francis about to do something, very, very rash.
> 
> And how on earth will James react.

In the end she suggested a walk.

The remainder of the morning had been awkward, not least because he suspected that Sophia was perfectly aware of the nature of his dream by the time she too had woken. How could she not be against the evidence he presented? She had peeled herself from him as to spare his embarrassment, and to her credit she made no comment, but he had been glad for the excuse to tidy himself and leave the cramped room.

She had not dragged him to see Lady Franklin either, but instead chose a path around the nearest park, the track cleared of snow by the groundsmen but the lawns still deep under a thick layer which extended down towards the pond. There were skaters there after lunch, and on the bank stalls sold hot chestnuts and nuts. He purchased some to serve as breakfast for the late risen pair and they retreated to a little gazebo to watch children whizz by on the frozen water.

‘I don’t suppose you ever skated?’ Sophia said.

Francis choked on a chestnut, red in the face, the absurdity of the image too much. ‘What?!’

‘On all that ice?’ she looked at him from under her bonnet. He could not tell if she was serious or not.

‘In the arctic?’

She raised an eyebrow.  A fit of desperate laughter hit him so hard his eyes watered.

‘Do I amuse you somehow. Francis?’

He held his side and let the chuckling subside before swiping at his face with a gloved hand. ‘Oh Sophia… it… it is not like this! The ice holds no entertainment.’

‘But it is ice, none the less,’ she persisted and still he could not read her, ‘Water? Frozen?’

‘Sea water, my dear girl, sea water. It is not a tranquil pool frozen flat and smooth for the application of skates. It is rough and uneven, pressure ridges dozens of feet high, broken, ragged, unpredictable. The ground rumbles and another rises before your very eyes, and failing that a great ravine opens beneath your feet and threatens to swallow you, sledge, boat and all. It encased our ships, crushed them with its pressure. It is a relentless, breathing, living beast intent only on destruction….’ He looked out across the pond, so busy with London society, keen to enjoy the novelty of cold weather, ‘Oh it is not like this,’ he finished.

‘But is it beautiful?’ she asked.

‘It is terrifying,’ he said, ‘And… beautiful in its way.’

There was a pause while he rooted about in the paper bag for another chestnut, his tongue seeking out a painful tooth in his jaw. It had bothered him since his return and failed to mend when the scurvy had remitted. Perhaps the enamel had cracked in the cold, he mused, another tooth lost to the poles. Beside him Sophia wiped her hands on a handkerchief and replaced her gloves.

‘You spoke of a beast before, not the ice, but another?’

‘There were many,’ he said evasively.

‘The one that carried away my uncle.’

‘Ah.’

By God, he had hoped he would not have to talk of this, but then he had already talked of so much he dreaded the mention of. Was a mythical beast any harder to describe than the trials of which he had already spoken?

‘I would have the details,’ she edged.

Francis turned towards her. For a moment the excited cries of children at play behind him metamorphized into shrieks of horror.

_Sir John!_

‘I would not trouble you with those,’ he said gently.

‘Was it… quick?’ she asked.

_The screams and gunshots, James leading his party out onto the ice for frantic rescue, the smear of blood that seemed to run for half a mile before it pooled at the edges of the fire pit, and below, the sea stained red._

‘I did not witness his death, Sophia, I was aboard _Terror_. I followed James to find Sir John was already lost.’

She did not reply. Just looked. Eventually Francis crumbled.

‘I believe Sir John… was chased a way, from the spot where the men were baiting the Beast, and then he was grievously injured…’

‘But yet alive…’

‘At that point, yes…’

‘And then…?’

‘Sophia, really…’

‘Tell me.’

‘And then it dragged him, bodily, for… some yards, before… before depositing him in…’

‘In?’

‘In the pit we kept open for water in case of fire aboard the ships. Some distance out but deep, the thickness of the ice itself, some 25ft down to the sea.’

The words tumbled out. He checked her response. In the cold air it was hard to tell if she blanched or was merely pale from their long night and chill weather.

‘Then he drowned,’ she stated.

‘He may already have been dead,’ he lied. There had been too much blood, it had pumped from his wounds as he was dragged.

‘Or he may have experienced the whole thing,’

He could not argue.

‘What happened to the beast?’ she said.

Francis cracked his knuckles and stretched out his arms. ‘It died, but not before it took many more, and worse filled the men with such fear and superstition as to drive their already half sickened minds mad. The beast itself did not have to be present for its effects to be known.’

Sophia frowned delicately.

‘Sometimes I wonder if it was even real,’ he said. ‘Of course, what happened to Sir John, that was real, but we thought at the time… what if it were a bear? What if it were an animal, not yet discovered, a larger cousin to the white bear we knew of? Some rationale…’ he sighed, dropped his hands between his knees again. ‘The ice plays with a man’s mind. The hunger, the sickness, the blinding endless colourless white of it all. It encourages darkness… within us, and when we see a darkness within, we look to an external force to lay blame at its door. It is not our fault… it is the thing. If we are afraid, it is the thing, if we are hurt, then it must have hurt us, or our Captain, or our friend, or our brother.  But the darkness is part of us, Sophia, it was part of the men, long before the beast made its first mark. All it did was hold a mirror to our faces, without it, we would have destroyed ourselves before long anyway.’

‘Francis, what do you speak of?’

‘I have a court martial in a week,’ he said, ‘It will all come to light then I’m sure.’

‘It is formality. You will not be disciplined for bringing men home, Francis.’

‘Two dozen live. One hundred and five do not.’

‘Francis…’

‘And at least one died by my own hand,’ he said.

She had been about to speak but his confession gave her pause.

‘There would be just cause,’ she said at last, ‘why, Officers must often hold court martial in these places in lieu of official proceedings. Punishments have to be exacted for the most serious of crimes. You a fair man, Francis, one who has always abided by regulation and law.’

He found himself nodding. ‘Aye,’ he said uncertainly, ‘Tell me, Sophia, if you saw a man commit murder, would you demand justice?’

‘Yes!’ she said in utter surety. ‘If I saw such a thing why I would have no option but to act upon what I had witnessed. I….’ She stopped. He heard her breath leave her in a soft ‘Oh.’

Crozier raised his chin and looked back across the pond. A group of wool clad children were stumbling back towards land, tripping over their clumsy skates, holding onto one another for balance. They veered and tipped and on reaching the frozen ground the youngest fell forward into the snow. His landing was soft, but he wailed nonetheless, until his brothers hauled him up by his coat and dusted him down. Hush, they told him, hush.

 ‘Oh, God, Francis…’

‘I had to stop him…’ he said.

 

Technically it was Spring. The days grew longer and the sanctity of darkness no longer covered their tents by night, replaced by an eerie twilight or the phosphorescent gloom of the aurora. Their progress had slowed and visits to Mr Goodsir’s tent for medicine, or merely for kindness in the face of an untreatable reality, had grown in the last weeks. Now when they moved, there were men to haul too and the scourge was taking its grip.

They had found no game.

James had reassured him that perhaps it was still to come and not to lose heart. With each step they moved closer to it. Especially as the year drew on and the migrations came into season once more.  The words sounded hollow and Francis felt oddly betrayed, not by James’ belief but by the Thing which had let them all down after making such false promises. At last he had chosen to have faith in it and follow its whims but as quickly as he professed his friendship it ran from him, laughing.

Crozier had been so certain, he had pictured salvation so clearly, and more than once. The caribou moving North with the thaw, West to East along the coast and deep into the Isle itself. He had been so sure.  Three weeks on from the first of the Visions indicating the direction in which food lay, he led the hunting party himself, hoping that something would trigger further revelations or at the very least give him a heavy sense of déjà vu.

The Thing did not listen to his pleas. He saw nothing and returned to camp empty handed.

The men muttered. Their initial high morale dented by heavy burdens, sick friends, long miles and less food. Rations were reduced. What there was, was half rotten and riddled with lead pellet spat with contempt to the stone below. Whispers about the distance still to travel, the nonsense in moving North, began to circulate camp. Crozier knew the spell he had cast upon his officers in persuading them to abandon plans to move South would soon be lifted entirely if he succeeded only in emptying their supplies and weakening their bodies in the face of the Northern cold they ought to be evading, not walking into. And grumbling officers would listen to grumbling men. There would be mutiny.

He sat at his desk and worried at the nail of his thumb as James stripped out of his slops behind him.

‘Stop that,’ he said to the rasp of canvas sliding through belt loops.

‘I see nothing James, why has this thing forsaken me now?’

‘Perhaps …’ he hesitated, ‘Perhaps the Visions of game were more… wishful than true?’ he ventured kindly, ‘ A dream? Perhaps in your fatigue it is harder to tell the difference?’

Crozier huffed. ‘If that is so then this thing abandoned me when we left the ships and has not come since. Perhaps I have angered it.’

‘I doubt that, Francis.’

‘If it is a thing come from God then we have more than broken his commandments.’

‘We have done no such thing,’ James bit out, ‘Do not presume to lay reason for the absence of guidance upon our closeness, Francis, God made no commandment about love other than _to_ love.’

Crozier picked at the table sullenly. The air fizzed.  As usual it was James who tried to smooth the waters.

‘I do not have the impression it is a thing to be summoned at your will, Francis, and the harder you fight for it perhaps the more it will stay away. We continue on, it will guide us as needed.’

‘That is blind faith.’

‘That is the best kind of faith to have,’ he grunted as he pulled away his jumper. ‘Anything else leaves too much room for concern.’

‘We must be concerned, James.’

‘We are, do not add to it,’ he snapped.

Francis slammed his palm down on the table and ink pots rattled. His pistol rocked on its barrel. ‘Damn it James I have hauled us to this position on the basis of a whim and now it fails me! I cannot be anything other than at my wits end with that responsibility and it is mine alone. I have condemned us through madness to a lingering death in this Hell. The men grow restless, sick and disillusioned and I have nothing to offer them… Nothing!’ he hit the table hard again this time with the side of his clenched fist.

Items rattled and stilled. Crozier bit down on his thumb again and James moved behind him, settled his hands on his shoulders.

‘Hush,’ he said. ‘It is done now, the decision made, and there is reason to it as well as what you term ‘madness.’  More ships do pass in the Sound, especially with the ice so thick and no thaw seen. Whiche’er direction we took it would be miles of hardship. If we moved South we would be just as helpless without game as we are here. Rescue might be three hundred or a thousand miles away, it matters not at this stage. All we can do its to keep moving for as long as we can.’

‘It is equally hopeless both ways then,’ Francis quibbled, his jaw clenching in a vain attempt not to dissolve there and then.

James squeezed at his shoulders rhythmically. ‘Must you twist everything I say to you in comfort?’ he teased, ‘You have borne up thus far, you shall continue to do so Francis, you have been nothing but a shining light for these men. Where has this come from now? This new tension within, this backwards step to melancholy?  Where has your optimism gone, hmm…?’ a hand slipped to his cheek, removing his chewed thumb from his mouth, ‘Your smile?’

‘The same way as my Visions,’

‘They will return when they are ready.’

‘That is of no use if they cannot be trusted.’

‘They can.’

‘What makes you so sure of that?’

‘They are a part of _you_. You know that has e’er been my reasoning, and it will ne’er change.’

James’s cool hands slipped away from his skin and Francis allowed himself to watch his retreating form as he made his way to the sack. It could have been the light, the strange grey haze of twilight, but he suspected the odd sheen to Fitzjames’ pallor came from within. Each rib more finely etched than before, each vertebra. As he turned prone to arrange the bedding Francis spotted the slackness of the skin about his belly. Never a large man it seemed that even so he had lost enough, and quickly, for it to fall like crepe at his waist. And there were bruises, so many, deep, blue black bruises. Crozier had seen it often enough now to know that nothing healed once a man reached this stage. Bruises ne’er turned yellow, nor faded. They merely bled, over and over, until the stiffness leeched into the very joints and ground like glass with every movement.

‘Stop that,’ James said again tiredly.

‘I cannot look at you?’

‘I am not much to look at these days,’ James grouched, ‘And besides, you look only to count today’s marks.’

Francis let his eyes track over the dark blur where the hauling strap lay across James’ chest in daylight. His eyes lingered on the scars of musket balls beneath. Not bleeding. Not yet. But soon.  ‘We need to lighten the load,’ Crozier tapped the desk with his fingers, ‘We do not need this for example.’

‘A captain needs a desk,’ James argued pompously with the lightest hint of a smile. ‘For… for writing!’

Francis chuckled, ‘Writing _what_ for God’s sake? And besides, you are the scribe, and you may rest upon my back.’

James’ smile left him and he glanced at him wanly from where he lay. ‘I cannot add to your burden, Francis. Too many already rest upon your back.’

 

 

That night at last the Vision came. But it was not of game. No sweeping tundra, caribou or birds, no thawing ice, no rescue.

_There was a bone knife. And a torn lieutenant’s coat. There was blood. There was mist. There was a Gallows. Francis stood with his command to one side of the wooden frame enshrouded with fog and spoke of his decision to condemn one of his men. He did so with conviction, he read the charges and he stated evidence according to law. Of mutiny. Of the defilement and brutal slaughter of a commanding officer. Of betrayed and murdered Esquimaux who would have been their aid, of slaughtered children. He spoke of the death of a man whose belly had been full of seal meat, and of another innocent killed in the fray so that the perpetrator might conceal his Truth._

_Irving’s face was missing in the gathered crowd._

_And Hickey’s was framed by a noose._

_He smiled at Crozier, bright eyed and long toothed, and bent his superior’s accent around his own crooked tongue to ridicule his Captain, but the Crozier of the Vision was a dutiful man, and regulation dictated the condemned should have their last words. And so he waited. What did it matter now what Hickey said, the rope would tighten soon._

_Something moved in the fog._

_Not soon enough._

_The flash of claws and Death itself came to Hickey’s rescue._

In the tent, Crozier woke suddenly, panting, a scream lodged in his throat and the light of the borealis bathing his waking world in a sick greenish yellow. It fell over James’ sleeping face beside him, skin sallow and sockets black. Slowly Crozier let his breathing come back to normal. No vague vision of game this time, but specific, so specific, such details that one could not dream.

A murder weapon. A bloodied coat. A list of evidence read to the crew. The glint in Hickey’s eye. If the Vision had shown him the murder itself it could not have been more transparent, but it had spared him the horror of that scene; and if Crozier doubted his Visions before it was clear to him now. This Thing only intervened when the most pressing of eventualities were at hand. Amongst this camp there was a traitor, an engineer of mutiny, a murderer.

Crozier had a choice.  He glanced at James. Should he wake him to debate it? He had no sense of time. The events which unfolded before that Gallows were built could happen at any moment. Wait, no, Irving had eaten of seal, he had met Esquimaux, he must have ventured out. In a party. Taken Hickey with him.

Simple, keep them apart.

Keep them apart in a busy camp of men, all with their own duties. A rat like Hickey could easily befriend an officer, volunteer for a task. Crozier could not watch him always. And what if he protected Irving to the expense of other men? What if his focus was too much drawn? Would there be others? Other opportunities for Hickey’s mutinous desires? Did it matter to one like him, which officer he killed? Which man? Merely that there were opportunities, everywhere opportunities. Other Mates, other Seamen, other Commanders...

In his sleep James mumbled quietly. The tent shimmered.

Hickey would not stop. Crozier had seen it all before. The unremorseful advancement of a practical man bent on survival. They were all potential victims. The only way he could protect them was if Hickey died.

Wait, no, be reasonable, be _just_. It was not inevitable was it? Perhaps he could haul Hickey up on some more minor misdemeanour, keep watch on him, make others alert to his potential, break their trust of him now, keep him shackled if must be. There were rules, he had always relied on rules.

But there was no time.

Was there? He rubbed his brow. He did not know.

If there was time, if he caught him afoot of something, anything, he could enact a suitable punishment under the guise of law. Murder was not the only hanging offense. He could build a Gallows yet.

_The flash of claws._

_Act._

Hickey was one problem. But there was another. The Beast in the Vision, the thing in the fog. It was waiting, and it was following them, and it would use any opportunity to attack, whatever the charge, and whenever Hickey was hoisted, whether he spoke final words or the knot snapped his neck before he drew last breath. The beast would be there. It was drawn to the Gallows, it was drawn to that moment.  Crozier had been shown. He closed his eyes.

‘Show me what to do. Please. I don’t know what to do… if I don’t stop this…’

_The screams, the chaos. Men running, weapons firing, rockets, there were rockets, loaded in a desperate attempt to fight back, and kneeling behind them, a match in his mouth and dark eyes focused on the Beast as it charged down upon him…._

_James._

Crozier pulled back. He could not look beyond that moment. It could not see that Future, he would stop it at all costs. Carefully, he removed himself from the shared sleeping sack, and pausing only to pull on his slops, lifted the pistol from the desk.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God this chapter was a hard one. Please excuse any typos, weird autocorrects etc.   
> Actions, consequences, darkness, inner conflict and general disastrousness. I'm so sorry boys... so sorry.

Crozier crunched over the rocks and snaked his way through the narrow paths between tents. Passing sickbay, he saw it lit up against the twilight, Dr Goodsir no doubt still awake and tending to the growing number of men within. Men who deserved the best chance to live. Men who deserved protection. From the Beast, from the elements, from the darkness which grew within themselves and lodged itself now in Hickey’s heart. With his fists balled in his pockets and the hidden weight of the pistol bumping against his thigh, Crozier moved smoothly, determinedly, his focus now absolute.

The men’s tents were full and black within. Crozier paused outside each one. Canvas glowed dirty green in the aurora’s light. The sighs and sounds of sleep wafted from the flaps onto the still air. Weeks of blizzards, gales and wind, settled now to nothing. Just aching silence, representative of the emptiness of the land, punctuated only but the struggling breath of interlopers, coughs and wheezes, moans of pain and of hunger.

Hickey was not sleeping. Crozier was sure of it. Perhaps this was why the Vision had chosen now to come to him. He flicked his eyes beyond the perimeter of the camp, to where the borealis moved softly in grey blue skies. The jagged outcrops of rock and ice were silhouetted sharply against a waving motion of orange and green; a strip of torn paper, or a row of waiting teeth at the edge of their shrinking world. To the north he saw the broad back of Collins, his stout frame black against the sky, a shotgun cradled in his arms. Crozier looked to the West. Somehow he knew his target lay there.

Sure enough Hickey’s small frame could be seen some distance from the edge of camp. He was pacing a short way, back and forth, back and forth, kicking at the gravel by his feet, stamping out the cold from his legs. He held no gun, his hands folded under his armpits and his breath pluming green before him. A dark shape against the colours of nature’s night, distracted by his own misery, or deep in rebellious thought. Crozier quickened his pace and hushed his steps.

Hickey made so much noise of his own as he fidgeted and grumbled that he would not have heard the Captain’s approach, but for Crozier himself each crack of rock and huff of breath coming from his victim rang clearly to his ears. The world around him narrowed until there was only the prey before him. The dim sounds of the camp behind him faded. Above him the aurora shimmered and he felt himself drawn into the familiar half haze of his Visions, but sharp, so sharp nonetheless.  He must end this rat, and fast, give him no opportunity, no final words, no mercy.

A dozen yards out and Hickey gave up his stomping and crouched suddenly to the ground. Crozier froze. The caulkers mate patted down his pockets and the white bowl of a pipe glowed in the odd light. A moment later a match flared. Crozier spotted Hickey’s abandoned gun just out of his reach. Ah, providence, indeed. Something was guiding him this night, to be sure and he must seize the chance it gave him, to end this mutiny before it began.  He inched forward, his face impassive. Three breaths more, he counted down his heartbeats and as he did so Crozier watched plumes of tobacco rise around Hickey, watched the slow suck and chew of a rodent’s teeth upon the stem.

He raised the pistol.

‘Francis!’ James barked, ‘No! In God’s Name!’

Hickey spun at the sound and scrambled to his feet. The pipe skittered away. In the instant he saw the gun, a flash of respondent green told Francis he held a knife. On instinct Hickey lunged, a wide grin on his pale face, the light of the aurora colouring him ghastly, and for a moment Crozier saw the same murderous glint in those eyes as he had in his Vision.

He pulled the trigger and the shot blasted through the night, a sound so loud when compared to the silence, it shattered all. Then absolute quiet beat once, twice.

Hickey stared at him, his grin faltering only a little, melding to a curious smile, before slowly the blood dripped black from his lips.

‘Francis!’ a rattling behind him, of falling rocks and panting breath. James stumbled to his side, a hand grasping his arm, wrenching away the gun. ‘What in Hell?!’

The bone knife fell from Hickeys grip and at the same second the man’s knees buckled, dropping him to the rocks below. He knelt,  hands over his chest and stomach, searching out his wound beneath layers of torn slops. The blackness was slow to seep through but seep it did. He looked up at Crozier with that same sly and curious expression, eyes wide, half laughing.

‘Mister Crozier…?’ he gurgled.

James stooped quickly, pocketed the knife and began to prise away Hickey’s bloodied hands.

‘Christ, get Dr Goodsir! What in God’s name happened, Francis? Francis!’

‘Mr Hickey is planning mutiny,’ Crozier said flatly.

Though the blood at his lips was bubbling now, the look Hickey gave him was confirmation enough. Surprise and something akin to admiration that he should work out the truth from apparently nothing.

‘Isn’t that right, Mr Hickey?’ Crozier stepped a pace towards him.

A twitch in that gruesome smile, Hickey looked away, scanning the ground.

‘Jesus Christ, is this true? Speak man!’ James demanded shaking him. Hickey spluttered, turned his face and spat, resuming his grimace as dark matter hit the Commander’s face. Fitzjames flinched back, revolted and stunned.

‘It had to end,’ Francis stated.

‘This is not the way!’

Hickey began to sag, and James grappled with the wound on his chest as though to plug the hole, he was a very picture of panic, dishevelled, frantic, blood stained. ‘You have proof of this?’ James looked up urgently at Crozier, ‘Did he attack you? Were you threatened, Francis for God’s sake! You have killed him!  With what proof? How do you know of this mutiny?’

Hickey coughed and the power seemed to leave his thighs, he tipped sideways onto the rocks, the black stain now clear to see, pouring forth from the place where James tried desperately to stem the flow.

_As black as his soul. Watch it leave him now. Watch it stain the earth._

‘Francis? Francis! What proof?’

From behind the shouts of men, the gunshot urging them from their tents, lights bobbed, footsteps rumbled towards them.

‘The Visions,’ Francis said quietly.

The world seemed to shimmer, the haze started to lift. Now there was only noise, and chaos and blood. So much blood.

‘Your Visions will have you hanged, Christ, Francis!’

James’ face wild in the light of the fading borealis, smears of blood dark on his cheeks, his hands stained, the body at his feet. Seeping. Leeching life. The last mist of breath vanishing. Francis blinked, and all that he had been so certain of in the last hour seemed to shiver within him, weakened and unsure. A twist of nausea at his gut, a flood of saliva.

Hickey was dead, and as the flame of his life expired a new fire burned within Crozier, lighting the dark corners of his mind in realisation.  He had sought out a man and killed him in cold blood. He had killed one of the men he had sworn to protect, without provocation, without true evidence, without even thought. A string of simple action for dire consequence. He had slept, seen and woken, walked and fired a gun. He had ceased to question, ceased to consider. He had listened to the Vision and the Vision alone.

_This way madness lies._

He had not questioned it, but others would.

‘Captains!’ a holler from behind, they were closing in on the scene and what defence did he have?  He would be stripped of command, he would be commended. Justice would be demanded, here, or in England, or in the next life. His heart beat so hard his chest tensed in agony. It was over, it was all over. The men would mutiny now for certain, they would split and fight amongst themselves and all hope of rescue would be lost. What had he done? He had cursed every man.

‘Captains!’

Crozier opened his mouth, but no words came, there was no time, no time.  He locked eyes with James, a silent plea, but for what he no longer knew, only that he needed him, words, action, comfort, _something_ to make it right, something to save him from the monster he was becoming, something to save them all.

James nodded, once, more to himself than to Francis and in the gloom Crozier saw his pale jaw twitch.

‘Blind faith,’ James said, withdrawing the knife he had removed from Hickey’s reach. ‘You will thank me, Francis, when we reach home.’ And with that he turned it on himself.

‘Wait!’

There was a flash as the blade dug deep into canvas, a grunt as it moved deeper into flesh and the sound of bone on rock as the weapon dropped to the ground by a dead man’s hand.

Fitzjames staggered forward into Francis’ waiting arms.

‘Tell them… it was Hickey,’ he breathed.

 

It had begun to snow and the last of the children were being ferried from the park to warm homes and waiting meals. The sky above was thick with cloud, bleak, colourless, and oh so opaque, broken only by each flake as it swithered down to settle softly on his upturned face. Crozier felt each tiny speck of moisture, each unique crystal melt and vanish on his skin. As individual as any of God’s creations and so brief.

Beside him Sophia stood up, stiffly.

‘I should like to go home,’ she said.

Francis looked up at her, her face pinched and white in profile against the sky. He watched her swallow, tried not to notice the reddening of her eyes.

‘Sophia…’

‘I cannot hear more of this, Francis.’

Ah, there was the truth of it. The weight he carried was his alone to bear, he should never have shared it with her, of all people.  He knew how it looked, and perhaps she was right, but if she would just hear him out, there was more to this tale. He wished he was better at the telling, he succeeded only in transferring his own loathing of himself now to her. He was a misdirected coward whose actions hurt the thing he loved most and who still, had taken until this moment to confess.  He thought of the upcoming court martial, if he had more strength he might set that record straight but then it seemed like a rejection of James’ altruism in using that knife. James who had protected him all this time and even now revealed nothing of the truth. The last of his love, keeping Francis safe.

He couldn’t bring himself to let it go.

‘You think of him now,’ she read his silence, ‘and speculate as to why he is cold towards you. You marvel now why he will have nothing to do with your presence,’ Sophia rounded on him, ‘Is it any wonder, Francis!’

‘His change has been a recent one, only since our return, back then even after that night…’

‘Then?’ she cried, ‘Then when he took a knife to his gut by his own hand to try and defend you! It was an act of sacrifice! To whom do we make sacrifice, Francis,  is it from love or fear? Sacrifice can be an ugly thing. A grotesque _undeserved_ …’ she choked, a hand over her mouth, ‘Francis…’ her voice lowered to a whisper, ’You killed a man, with no evidence of wrong doing, you blindly followed your dreams and took a man’s life! James may have had the urge to protect you but I doubt you shall ever be forgiven or looked upon in kindness again. Perhaps now he has had time to think upon his actions, perhaps now he has time to regret.’

‘He remained constant, throughout and after, he was true…’

‘Because he had to be, Francis! Because his senior had been touched by madness, because he was afraid! What Visions would you have after this? Would your paranoia turn on him? He had no choice  but to court martial you himself to hang, or try to humour your insanity, and if… _if_ he e’er loved you he would be so tormented by the prospect of the first that he would give his all to try to stop you from further lunacy in the place of death. But it is a false constancy, born of terror.’

Crozier ground his jaw, ‘You are wrong, if you would hear me…’

‘You are damnably selfish, Francis. The man would be destroyed. Terrified and destroyed and all you see is your own pain and rejection. You claim love but you know nothing of his heart!’

Crozier bolted upright, ‘And you know nothing of mine, Sophia,’ he hissed. ‘You were not there, you did not see the aftermath…’

She recoiled from him as though his breath was sulphur itself.

 ‘Thank God!’ she cried, ‘For I cannot begin to imagine his torment or pain! Do you really think he will ever be the same? He has more than fulfilled any duty to you, as his Captain, as his… _lover_? Do not ask more. Leave him _be_. Let him live. Free of the nightmare you dragged him through in a place already representative of Hell!’

‘I will not! I _cannot!_ I must make this right between us!’

‘You are cruel, selfish and deluded. Why must you haunt him after all he has done to save you? He owes you nothing Francis… but by God you owe _him_. You owe it to him to leave him _be_! You are a monster in love, unhinged, obsessive, unable to use the barest sense of reason or see what is before your very nose, outlandish, impulsive, driven by baser instinct. I of all people should know this!’

Crozier’s cheeks stung as though he had been slapped. His anger transformed into a painful keel of grief.  He was once again lingering outside of James’ tent, sickened, remorseful, listening to the mutterings and orders of Dr Goodsir as he and Bridgens tended the wound in the Commander’s gut. The wound that mutineer Hickey had inflicted, right before the Captain shot him. The camp had been abuzz with outrage and horror. Men milled around the fire, casting furtive but admiring glances to where Crozier stood. He had done right, they had said, the rat in their midst was dispatched. What quick thinking and stalwart courage their Captain had shown, now they must pray to God Fitzjames would live to tell the tale.

The tale Crozier was at that point trying to fine tune in his o’erwraught mind even as the plasters were applied to James’ bleeding body, but he was ne’er any use at deception or embellishment and the details would not be born to him. He was a man of feeling and impulse, not oration and now the raw gripe of terror poured into each ounce of his flesh obscuring all thoughts but one. Wounds did not heal in the arctic, and James was already sick. Terror. He could not breathe for the sensation.

‘Francis?’ Sophia’s voice cut through the fog of memory. He blinked, his eyes hot. The snow was falling thickly now, a veil before her face. ‘What if he had died?’ she said, ‘What if he had died for you that night?’

He closed his eyes, ‘I know,’ he breathed.

She took a breath, despite her disgust she seemed reluctant to pull away from him now and go home. Perhaps her anger was abating, perhaps her kindness would win o’er after all.  ‘Did no-one question the events?’ she asked.

‘If they did, they did so quietly,’ he replied, ‘Two Captains word against the dead body of an ill-liked caulkers mate. A knife engraved with his name jammed into the stomach of a Commander? Whose version would you believe, Sophia? James made it…. Simple to understand.’

She looked away, repelled, ‘How convenient for you.’

He winced. Every word he spoke seemed to condemn him further. ‘But it was not simple,’ he tried, ‘it was anything but, it changed everything, please hear me out… I am not a bad man,  but I was a desperate man, a misguided man, I made a terrible mistake, but it was done and I had to find a way to continue.’

‘You had to keep the truth hidden. For your sake.’

‘For _their_ sake,’ Francis said, ‘For the remaining men, for _him_ , for James. I had been stumbling forward on the back of unverified Visions and fancy. I had used them as much as a crutch as I had the drink. I swerved responsibility through fear, put my faith in something unseen and untested. That had to change.’

‘James too had faith in the Visions, you were not alone.’

‘James had faith in _me_ ,’ he corrected.

‘But you did not… after this, and rightly, and nor should he have. You could have given him command, realised your weakness and stepped away.’

‘I tried,’ Crozier said, ‘I tried, but… Sophia you must understand, of all the men there, save Blanky, I still had the most practice in the polar regions. And what signal would it give to the men should that man of knowledge step away, or be seen to concede to his more inexperienced Commander on every point, unable to cope with the weight of command.  Who would the men turn to then?’

‘You had grown arrogant, Francis.’

He laughed painfully, ‘Maybe, briefly maybe, but I am e’er too conflicted for it to last long, thank God, you know that is my nature. Sophia, I had to retain command to maintain order. A fallen Captain is a fallen crew. A lost expedition. This is but the way in the Discovery Service, it hinges upon us, with a Senior Officer there must be a distance, a respect, a…’ he paused the words too resonant, ‘A blind faith.’

Francis sighed. ‘I had to make amends and take the men forward, or all would be lost. But it was not easy… it was far from easy.’

‘Tell me then… how you reconciled your actions,’ Sophia said, her voice laced with scepticism.

 

_Standing alone at the entrance to Fitzjames’ private tent, an array of used bandage, medicine and salve scattered upon the floor by the sleeping sack. A hint of the strappings o’er James’ abdomen peeking out from the edge of the furs. Feet away but yet so far. Waiting, waiting. For permission, for acknowledgement, for recognition of any kind. Crozier had felt as though his knees may buckle in anxiety as he held on, before  James’ eyes finally turned upon him, opening slowly through a haze of Laudanum._

_Francis. We must speak._

_His tone was flat, but he lifted a hand to beckon him forward through the sphere of golden lamplight._

_Come._

_Crozier hesitated, watching his face, trying to read his expression. The mire of nervous energy in his belly spun and churned. He was a man made of hope, but tremulous within. There was something of flint in James’ drugged gaze, and yet he prayed something tender there remained._

_Come, James said again._

_Francis stepped out of the shadow._


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout from the stabbing. James gives Francis the pep talk of his life while realising he may has misplaced his faith in Francis Visions.
> 
> (Mostly verbal angst setting us up from more Doom in future chapters) - bear with me!

James tried to sit up as Francis approached  but with a wince fell defeated back against the pillow. He took a steadying breath, his discomfort too obvious to obscure completely.

‘Christ what have I done,’ Crozier sat heavily by his side, ‘James, I’m so very sorry.’ He looked away, at his hands, as though he might see the blood there, but it was Fitzjames’ fingers which were still stained at the nails, with his own blood or Hickey’s Francis could not tell. He wanted to weep, but the image of him snivelling in self-pity over James’ wound sickened him enough to grit his teeth. He might be a pathetic wreck of a man but he would try his best now to shore up his walls and demonstrate some kind of strength, if only so that James did not have to witness such a shameful disintegration.

‘What in God’s name did you see?’ James’ voice was surprisingly strong, even now, ‘Francis, what possessed you, speak of it now. Explain.’

‘He would have murdered Irving,’ Francis said, ‘I saw Hickey at a Gallows for his crime, and the beast attacked, dozens of men died and then… it turned upon you…’ after a pause he looked up to meet James’ eye. He looked back coolly.

‘Did you see the murder?’ he asked, ignoring his own role in the Vision.

‘No…’ Crozier admitted, ‘But there was evidence enough.’

The word seemed to jar. ‘Evidence!’ James said, ‘Evidence, Francis? What evidence can a Vision provide in surety?’

‘The knife…’

James shut his eyes briefly. ‘Unless you saw it plunge directly into our Lieutenant, than all you have is speculation.’

‘No! No, James… I…’ he weakened, ‘I.. saw..’ Francis trailed off. What indeed had he seen?  What on God’s earth could justify this now. Nothing.

He watched as the Commander passed a tired and dirty hand across his face. ‘Christ Francis, I am lost. I know not what to believe now, what faith or not to have in these things you witness. The fire was true enough, your Vision of the ships in ice, but are these not the things men fear when at sea? Could not be anxiety alone driving them?’

Crozier pressed his lips together hard, ‘It… is possible.’

‘And yet when these things come to you, there is such a certainty to them, I see it when it takes you, an otherworldly touch, and that at the time I cannot doubt it, it is… a thing entrancing… but this…. _This_ Francis! It is too much!’ The outburst sapped the strength from him at once. He leaned back further so that his gaze fell upon the roof of the tent, his eyes tracking back and forth as though they read some unseen text. When he spoke again his tone was weaker.

‘You saw game, but we had none and no sign of it. And you saw this… _mutiny._ But these too Francis could be the figments of a frantic mind. What Captain does not wish to feed his men? What leader does not fear rebellion when his subordinates starve and sicken? To see the Future is one thing, Francis, to follow an unknown guide in the hope of rescue can be understood, e’en encouraged if it gives men hope, by God I followed it willingly myself,  but to meddle? To intervene in such a way, on impulse? Francis these are treacherous waters you sail now.’

Crozier swallowed, knowing the words were of rational grounding but still his heart hammered in offense. Had not James told him to treat his Visions as a Gift? Embrace them? Use their guidance? When he himself had fought them for so long, had it not been James who had insisted he heed their direction? He would argue and yet after tonight he felt he had no basis upon which to do so, what right had he now to defend the thing which had led to James’ wounding.

‘You must stop,’ James said, ‘You cannot allow yourself to seek out the reality of the Visions if they in any way will endanger you. You cannot prevent them from coming, I know that, but for God’s sake tell me when they do, speak to me Francis and we will address each one together. You cannot act on impulse… you…’

‘You were in the Vision James, I could not stop myself… I could not see you hurt,’ he blurted out the irony.

For a second James’ eyes fell on him kindly.  ‘You should have woken me, and told me that,’ he said as patiently as to a child, ‘Warned me perhaps, we could have prepared for whatever was to come, but you should _not_ have merely acted. Now I have a knife hole in my side and a body lies in sick bay that wants burying.’

‘Hickey is… was…’ Crozier struggled for a suitable word, his gut still wished to condemn him utterly, the Vision’s images still burned his mind, but to do so would seem as though he took glory in the killing.

‘He is no great loss I am sure,’ James said coldly, ‘He has ne’er been widely trusted and it may be you had a sense of that enough to inform this Vision. Perhaps e’en now the Vision was accurate. But a threat or no, his death will reverberate around this camp like the gunshot that killed him. It will only get more difficult from here, Francis.’

James flinched and lifted the edge of the sleeping sack, inspecting the bandages o’er his wound. From where he sat Crozier could see the seepage, darkly red on the pale linens.

‘Why did you do it, James? Why did you turn the knife upon yourself?’ he asked.

‘Why do you suppose?’ came the gentle reply. ‘Francis for you to survive there had to be reasons for you to act in such a way beyond a mere fancy in a  dream and I could only think of two at that moment. Either he attacked you and it was self-defence, or he went for me and you responded.’

‘That knife should be in my gut, then.’ Francis said.

James reached out a hand to take his, and at last Crozier saw what he had been seeking in his eyes, ‘No, no Francis. I could no more do that, than you could stop yourself from reacting to the Vision when you saw my face therein. We protect one another, you and I, it is our nature now.’

James thumb rubbed slowly over his knuckles, the same familiar motion he used every night to calm Francis to sleep. Crozier pinched the bridge of his nose In a vain attempt to stop his tears from burning. He felt James’ gaze heavy on him then, scrutinizing, probing, but he was wretched. Bereft and wretched and undeserving.

‘This is my fault,’ James said.

‘What?’

‘I have placed you upon a pedestal, Francis, encouraged this folly, but my admiration was misdirected. I should have seen more clearly, your strengths and weaknesses.’

The Captain’s throat tightened his brief reassurance shattered. So here it was. At last James had discovered the awful truth about Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier. The reason why he had ne’er achieved the successes he so craved, the thing that led his superiors, peers and intimates to spurn him. Before James he had been alone, and here lay the crux of for why. His inadequacy was now exposed, his stupidity, his lack of ability, his tendency to lean on vice, drink, heresy, it was all the same flaw. He had nothing within of any merit, just the core of a despondent, melancholic failure of a man, too weak to lead.  A man who made a hopeless second, and an utterly useless first. A man who could not keep love.

‘I have failed you, James, I have failed us all, the Admiralty were right about me all along.’

James flicked his glance towards him curiously.

‘You misunderstand, Francis.’

‘Do I,’ he sighed. ‘James I should hand command to you, after this… I cannot trust myself.’

‘You would….? Francis are you just to give up?’ James snapped, he removed his hand. Crozier cast his eyes above him.

‘It would be the honourable thing to do. I am too much of a coward to confess, I do not wish to hang, but by Christ I should not lead this party.’

‘You _will_ lead this party and you will lead us _home_!’ James struggled upwards, one hand clamped to his side. ‘Do you think I have done this to myself so that you may abdicate further responsibility, no! No, Francis you will damn well do your job!’

‘And how in God’s name can I do that?!’ at last the burgeoning caldron of his fury tipped. Anger and pain, fear and strain, broiled together and spilled from his lips. ‘I have lost my very mind, James, I am not to be trusted, not by you, not by myself, and not by the men. I must be removed from all hint of power, you must take the reins before I get us all killed.’

James glared at him palely, propped on one arm, the sweat pooling  between his collar bones and spotted across his chest like dew. Agonised, exhausted, but completely unwilling to give up the battle.

‘I cannot do this, alone,’ he said quietly, ‘And I cannot lead. You are needed, Francis, and I will see that you step up to your position now, if it is the last task I e’er perform on God’s earth.’

‘Christ, how can you ask this of me? Now? After all I have done?’

‘I do not ask it, Francis, I command it, not as your superior, but as one who knows you better than you might think, as one who loves you e’en now. I see your true worth and I have faith in you still.’

Crozier laughed harshly, a short cruel sound. He briefly raised both hands and let them fall back to his knees in a gesture of despair.

‘Faith,’ he said dismissively. ‘You and your faith.’

‘Faith.’ James forced him to look at him and again Crozier saw the flint in his gaze. ‘You will listen to me now, Francis, and some of it you will not wish to hear, but I speak these words for your own good, and by doing so, for the good of us all.’

Francis glowered at him, but held his tongue. After a moment James eased back, unable to keep his weight on one shaking arm any longer.  Despite his simmering ire the sight pained Crozier.

‘You have the most magnificent chip on your shoulder, Francis,’ James started and Crozier’s mouth opened in offence, ‘Be quiet and hear me out!’ he said sharply.

‘It is destructive, so destructive, it corrupts you entirely. It made you drink, I’m sure, as much as the need to block these Visions ever did. You ruminate and you are filled with pity for yourself, for your position, for the heritage which has held you back, for the cruelties inflicted upon you by superiors or by women, by people you once thought you could trust, by all who have rejected or criticised. Your path has not been easy and you resent it, you have become made bitter, and your view of this world has become obscured by your perceived injustices. You blame those around you, you blame circumstance and you have come to believe all you have been told. Internalised it, doubted yourself, loathed the creature you are, your roots, your background, your lack of schooling, because it’s all just so bloody unfair, isn’t it? But what could you do, Francis when the world was so stacked against you?’

Crozier seethed. ‘Do not mock me, you who have had privilege all this time, you know nothing of…’

‘Oh, don’t I!’ James responded quickly, ‘Why, you are right Francis I know nothing of self-loathing or insecurity, I know nothing of being judged or being made to feel like a fraud.’

The stared at one another. Crozier swallowed.

‘Touché, is the expression, Francis,’ James said, for a moment wielding his education like a lance.

‘Very well,’ Francis said levelly, conceding, ‘Your theory…’

‘All of this you have taken to heart,’ James said, ‘All of this you would hear from me now only to confirm what you have always suspected, that you are worthless, flawed and unreliable, not fit to lead us home.’

Francis grunted. ‘If this is supposed to be helping me…’

James held up a hand. ‘When we left the ships you had new purpose, you were unshackled from your doubts and things progressed well for a time. You interpreted success as stemming from the guidance of the Visions… and then you lost that guidance and all your doubts returned. This too confirmed what you always knew… that you yourself were worthless.’

Crozier said nothing.

‘It is your chip that is worthless,’ James said, ‘Not you. We are not in London now. It does not matter who you were there. This land does not care if you are Irish, or middle born, it does not give a jot what the Admiralty think of you or which of your letters becomes mixed on the paper on which you write. It cares not about Visions or what serves as your guide. It does not even care if you live or die. You are nothing here, Francis, but a man.’

Francis stared at the ground at his feet. James’ hand sought his out again.

‘You are just a man,’ he said again, ‘ but you are more than that to me and further, you are a man with experience and abilities, gifts which he may use well, if he allows himself to. If he learns how.

‘When you first told me of these Visions I thought you had been blessed, but I see it is a mixed blessing Francis, and one we must learn to temper before more tragedy occurs. It is perhaps to be thought of more as a talent, like a head for heights, or a mind for mathematics, than a thing to be chained to blindly.  It is not infallible and it requires the application of judgement. It is a _part_ of you, but it should not be what _leads_ you, you understand?’

Crozier was not sure that he did. James read his expression.

‘Francis, you have many gifts. The Visions are but one of them, useful only if we see them for what they are…’

‘Which is?’

‘One arrow in a full quiver, as t’were. Something to be consulted and used when the time is right.’

‘So it is not a Gift after all?’

James kissed his fingers.  ‘The Gift isn’t the Vision, Francis. The Gift is _you_.’

Crozier shook his head sadly and James wrestled himself up to sit again, leaned against Francis’ back.

‘You are capable of leading us home, Francis. You have the strength to do so, both in mind and in body. You have courage and kindness in limitless measure. When you let the bitterness fall away, and the self-doubt, there is something quite irrepressible about you, it encourages the men, it pours from you with ease. You burn to survive, to have us all survive, and you will move Heaven and Earth to have it so, but, oh, you are chaos itself sometimes.’

He chuckled softly at his back, the twitch of his smile against Crozier’s neck, and one hand rubbing his arm affectionately. He was tired and heavy, the heat of him soft against Francis’ skin. He leaned into the touch, desperate for comfort and guidance. James did not disappoint.

 ‘Learn to direct this disparate energy, my love, or you will flounder and you lose focus. Let go the chip upon your shoulder. You must have the faith I do in you for this to succeed. You must let go your introspection and self-absorption. There is no place for such vanities here.  None of it matters in this place, the men and their survival _do_.’

‘I killed a man tonight , James, that is not a mistake I can so easily forget.’

Warm breath and the nuzzle of a familiar nose at his pulse point. Lips that pressed there slowly, tenderly, unconditional as ever.

‘You will never forget it, Francis. But the mistake made in one moment must not define you when there are a million moments still ahead. One choice cannot stop you from making a thousand more. Our circumstance is greater than the murder of one man, for it may lead to the murder of a hundred by the hand of Nature. You have the means to stop this, Francis and that must be your focus. I do not condone what has happened tonight, but there will be time with which to contend with it, with all of our trials, once we are home.’

‘You believe in me still,’ Francis said, his heart still heavy.  ‘I do not deserve it.’

James lay back then, his face pinched in pain but his eyes soft, motioning Francis to take up his usual place by his side. He did so, carefully, cradling the injured body in his arms as James turned cautiously to take the weight from his wound and nestled his head beneath Crozier’s shoulder.

Fine words. Spoken by one who after all, seemed to love him just as dear. Fine words, which should be comfort, and the sense that tomorrow Francis would begin again, take stock, reorganise the camp. He should move forward with new purpose and sound mind. But a sense was all it was. A promise made, a vow. He tried to focus but his thoughts blew wild and loose with dread.

Crozier extinguished the light and lay in the darkness until at last he heard James’ breath slow and deepen in sleep. He touched the bandage at his middle. Still damp. Still bleeding. Despite all Goodsir had done and the hours that had passed.

At once his thoughts cleared. They were running out of time.

Tomorrow, they marched North.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long march continues. Its not looking very good. But Crozier seems to have pulled himself together and James is on hand for some fluff. Even if he's rotting from the inside out.

‘Company… forward!’ Irving’s voice rang out across the flat of the land and with a chorus of grunts the men hauled onwards again. Crozier took a pace back from where he stood to the side of the lead boat and waited as they passed by, the keels scraping across the rock beneath and the pant of breath harsh on his ears. It seemed to him that the men were taking longer to hit their stride at each resumption of the march. Perhaps he imagined it, but hard truth pricked at his heart. They were waning, like the fading of the moon, e’en as the days at last grew warmer.

Summer. Or such that it was within the arctic, and the season had to be made the best of. Long bright days, little snow. The rock and sparse dull soil of Somerset Isle under their feet. They had made reasonable progress through May but now the pace slowed again. He calculated under eight miles a day. Soon it would be five. Soon he knew they must stop awhile and allow the sick to die in peace, as they had two weeks before, and as they would with increasing regularity.

The second boat drew level and Crozier stepped into pace alongside, just tall enough to peer within. They had jettisoned so much in the preceding weeks. Burned books for fuel, broken up furniture. His desk had finally been sacrificed along with all but a few cot frames, kept for the sickest.  The boats which once hauled the trappings of a far off civilisation, crockery, silver, mementos of home, were now filled with men. Too weak to walk far, or too ill to move at all. And one of them was James.

The wound had not been deep. Hickey’s knife had contended with slops and uniform, layers of damp fabric before it had e’er reached flesh, but it was enough. Already bruised, his gums already blackened, James had been unable to keep shut the scar, it seeped and oozed, broke open on movement. When he had tried to resume his march it had led only to more bleeding, the feeble skin tearing open and his shirt staining deep with blood. Francis had ordered him to be hauled, and amid much protest James had eventually conceded. He had not march again to date but lay now facing forwards, watching the backs of the men as they pulled, drifting in and out of sleep.

If it had only been that wound, perhaps things would have stabilised. But with his deteriorating state placed under more strain by the insult the worst had happened. Dr Goodsir examined the holes left by a musket ball years before and declared that the scurvy had control. They had broken down at last and joined their companion in a oozing mess along James left flank. From chest to hip he was rotten and though the tears in his skin were dressed and redressed, packed and mended by the patient doctor, they refused to stay closed.

Crozier of course had seen it before. In a Vision e’en before they left the ships. It had served as motivation then and it sharpened that feeling now, as a knife to a whet stone.  As the men trundled on, Crozier kept a shotgun slung over one arm, and shot in his pockets. He carried a bag filled with instruments and took measurements from the sun. Maps and charts padded his coat, a telescope and his pistol bumped his bruised thighs as he walked. He scanned the horizons, the skies, the land for game.  He sent Goodsir to scrounge for moss or lichen. The soup went to the sickest first.  There was not enough, there was never enough, but it was something.

They were hugging the West coast. The Visions had told him Ross was moored to the North East but to get there would mean climbing ravines and descending canyons on the isle. Hundreds of feet high and deep, it was an impossibility with  a fit crew, suicide with the men so weakened. They had to march North and turn but as yet were but a third of the length of the Isle. The route more than doubled their journey, but he would not throw them upon the mercy of the land more so than he already had. At night the Vision showed him paths through the crevasse inland. Steep, treacherous and jagged. He would clearly see the trail they should follow, and yet, he maintained their route. James had agreed it to be wise.

James. Francis peeked over the brim of the boat and studied his resting face. Even in sleep it was frowning in pain. He did not complain, he barely made a sound, but at night when he peeled away the layers and Francis bathed the wounds he would feel James tremble, he would see fear in his eyes, but always, always the tiny flame of hope.

‘There is time, I will not leave you here alone,’ he told him.

But he left others. So many others. At first in shallow graves and then hidden in rocky piles.  Another two dozen dead. More would follow. Crozier tallied the lost on Beechey, the deaths on Erebus with that most famous of losses, Franklin himself. The casualties from Carnivale seemed long ago but he added them to their number.  How rapidly death came now, as though the first to perish served as a signal to its waiting scythe. There were more than twenty in the boats and without rescue they would not last and then death would start on those remaining, on his marching able bodied men, all fifty-nine of them. Less than half.

But James was in the boat. He would be next.

He glanced to the horizon inland and as though summoned by his thoughts he saw the white shape of the Beast. Still a few miles off, it was bright against the blotchy soil. He moved in a leisurely lope, a thing at peace with its surroundings, a thing with endless time, the patience to wait. A predator would have picked them off by now, begun with the weakest, satisfied its hunger. This thing had no sense of urgency. Hunger did not drive it. He toyed with them.  It could wait for them to die by natures hand, or by their own, and only if it suited it would it intervene. True power needs not show its mettle for the sake of demonstration, for it can show itself at any time.

It would come, but, Crozier was certain, not yet. And he had not the capacity to divide his worry between men and Beast. Should it descend upon him he would deal with it then, with what ammunition and courage they had left. In the meantime they had to move, and keep moving, for their were greater enemies afoot.

He watched Peglar switch out of harness hurriedly and stumble to the side of the procession. Crozier averted his eyes to save the boys blushes, he was a sensitive lad and his urgency embarrassed him in front of the coarser men. But he was sick, too sick to haul in all honesty, and unable to control his body long enough to seek privacy.  Crozier should take him out of harness, he would not hear of being rested, he would not get into the boats, but he could be stopped from hauling.

From the corner of his eye Francis saw the lad squat to the ground, doubled in pain. He tried not to listen to the keening sound coming from Peglar’s lips. Behind him Bridgens hopped from the boat where he had been tending to the ill and jogged over, the only kindness Peglar would accept. He stood before him and shielded his purging body from view.  Crozier made a note to speak with him at dinner. If Peglar would not listen, Bridgens would. And Peglar would hear him.

Francis looked back at James. His eyes were open.

‘Hello,’ he croaked and flashed him a gruesome smile. His gums were swollen at the roots of his teeth and his lips scabbed, but the essence of his grin was still quintessential Fitzjames.

‘Pleasant nap?’

‘You know me Francis, I do enjoy lazing about in the sun,’ he looked skywards and indeed today it was a brilliant blue, even if it was but forty degrees.

‘Aye it is a glorious morning,’

‘Positively balmy,’ James quipped, ‘Is it morning Francis? I lose track.’

‘We have just dined,’ Francis struggled to orientate himself, ‘So technically it is after Luncheon.’

‘Which could be morning I suppose.’

‘Could be evening, for all I know.’

’Afternoon?’

‘Let’s go for afternoon,’ Francis agreed.

‘As good a time as any for my nap then, wouldn’t you say? Quite civilised… European even, to take a siesta.’ James raised his eyebrows expressively.

‘You didn’t even eat, James…’ Francis said as much as to prompt him to do so as to continue the joke. ‘You cannot take a siesta without actually consuming some food first.’

‘I skipped to the best part.’

Francis smiled. Arctic night in summer did lead to the most curious sense of a day. It could be middle watch for all he knew without consulting his charts and sextant. Each hour was the same, a constant drudgery of marching until too many men were too exhausted to pull. He had begun with more semblance of order, a keen eye for the hours that passed, a strict schedule for meals and hauling, but weakened men cannot stick to schedule. They must rest when they need to rest. Stoppage became more frequent, meals slid back and forth, camp was made earlier or later in response. He pulled out his pocket watch. Who knew if it was correct but he was fairly certain he had been winding it. He would just have to hope it was accurate and if not… what did it really matter. He’d makes some measurements later and get them orientated again.

‘It is 2pm,’ he said

‘Or 2am,’ James said.

‘Possibly.’

‘Either way a good hour for sleeping,’ James cocked an eye at him, Francis looked past the bloodied sclera. ‘Have you slept Francis?’

He cast a glance out to the coast, there was some break up of the ice he saw, but not enough. He could be sure the ships were still encased further south, the leads here were but narrow and led to pockets further out but they did not go further.  If he could but get the men onto water, they would travel so much further.

‘Francis?’ James insisted, ‘Do not evade me.’

He sighed, ‘I am perfectly alright James, I am not the one lounging in a boat counting the holes in his ribs.’

James snorted, ‘Now, now, jealousy does not become you.. We can’t all be so lucky,’

Francis did not known from whence James found his good humour but he was of course eternally grateful that he did. He already carried so much guilt upon his back that even the merest suggestion of blame, e’en in jest, might well have tipped him over. No, James had forgiven him and set aside the night of Hickey’s death as firmly as his frail grasp allowed. He may be too weak to march but the strength he had within was of more sustenance to Francis than any of their supplies.

‘I’ve seen you sleep when you walk,’ James said.

‘I do not!’

‘You do, like some kind of automaton. Peculiar but you manage quite a straight line.’

Francis shook his head at him. ‘You cannot see anything from your position, you’re like a bloody Roman Emperor reclining on his pallet, hefted by his slaves.’

‘Tis a pity we left the costumes on _Erebus_ ,’ James said sadly, ‘I’m sure there was a Caesar I could have adopted.’ He cocked a brow dramatically… ‘Et tu Brutus?’

‘What?’ Crozier squinted at him.

‘Dear God, Francis you are so uncultured, Caesar? Stabbed?’

Crozier looked at him in horror, ‘Jesus Christ, James! Don’t!’

James fell to chuckling, one hand clasping his inured side, ‘Oh come on, you must admit, that was amusing. And sharp! Very sharp…. Like… like a knife…’ he trailed off, tears in his eyes.

‘There is nothing amusing about…’ Francis started, before the hysteria infected him. He trudged on giggling to himself at what could only be described as bad taste. Christ, was James really making a joke of this? And yet the sight of him gasping for breath between laughter as he lolled in the boat was strangely edifying. He forgot for a moment where they were, imagined him laid across a rug, or a pillow filled bed, talking and drinking, idly whiling away time.

‘If I can find it funny, Francis…’

‘Did he stab himself then?’ Crozier sked.

‘No, you ignoramus, for heaven’s sake, I can see I must escort you to the theatre on our return to London and educate you accordingly. Surely you have heard of the play?’

In his mind Crozier crawled atop of the James on the pillows and restrained him long enough to miss the start of the performance. He imagined James protesting weakly. Very weakly indeed as he bent to kiss his neck.

‘I have heard of it, I believe I may even have attended,’ he said vaguely.

‘Did you fall asleep?’

‘Well I don’t remember much, I may have been inebriated,’ he looked back at James, ‘For a change,’ he added.

James cackled again and then brought the laughter to a sudden standstill. He flinched and held his chest. ‘Damn balls,’ he commented.

Crozier spluttered, ‘James really!’

Fitzjames winked at him, ‘No… I mean the musket balls.. seriously…. I have to stop laughing for a moment, I have _holes_ in me remember?’

Crozier relented then, looked down at his boots as he marched. He counted the steps as James evened out his breathing, fiddled with the contents of his pockets as James shifted about in the boat.

‘This is damned uncomfortable,’ he muttered, and Francis looked sidelong at him, ‘I could walk, you know, a little way.’

‘No.’

James slumped back. The boat rumbled on. Two men switched out of harness. On the far side of the craft Blanky lurched passed as he moved between boats helping to transfer medical supplies. He could not haul. Crozier wondered how long he would be able to even walk. The monotony of the crunching rocks and heaving men drummed on and on.

He tried to think of the James he had left on the pillows. Of the argument they would have as he tried to persuade Francis to see a play. Of the way he would be silenced with the trail of a wet tongue down his neck and the weight of Crozier’s hands on his wrists. The bed would be of feather, and the sheets a fine linen. A fire would glow in a hearth nearby and they would feel no cold. And they would be alone, finally, with no fear, and no duties, but to themselves. Themselves. Well and whole and burning for one another. In his mind James was mouthing the shell of Francis ear softly, hotly, his tongue warm and wet against his earlobe. Crozier hummed.

‘Francis?’ The slap of a hand on his shoulder, ‘Francis!’

‘Hmm?’

‘Maybe you should get in for a bit? Rest?’ James said.

‘I will not be hauled while I can walk.’

‘Even if it is sleepwalking.’

The boat lurched suddenly, men stumbled, but one had already fallen within the harnesses and ropes. There was a shouting and tripping. From behind Bridgens had already left his position once more, e’en before the call went up.

‘Man down!’

Crozier leaned his back against the boat and waited. Goodsir was already helping the man to his feet with Bridgens arm around his waist. It was Samuel Crisps, no more than a boy really,  a _Terror_ crew member. Francis nodded to him in encouragement and reassurance as he was moved past. The medics had become slick. Stop, scoop, into a waiting boat. In minutes Irving was calling the men on again. Francis stepped away as the craft shunted into action, taking James with it, but he did not follow.

‘Francis where are you going?’ he called.

‘Readings, back in a moment. I’ll catch up.’

He let the last of the boats haul passed him then stood looking at the coastline. The image of James beneath him on a feather bed still lingered but he found it hard to picture without the marks on his skin. If they ever were to reach such nirvana he must find food soon, fresh and plentiful. Another recce then. Just experience and his own eyes to guide him.

Ice, Ice and more ice. The thawing sea gave little else.  Streaks on snow on the earth and then a white edge of nothing. Tiny broken channels and a smattering of small circular pools. Seal holes? Too big. Random melts but not great enough to signify anything of use. They led nowhere, they did not join. Perhaps there had been more of a melt overnight or in the previous days but it had closed over once again. At any length there was nowhere for his boats to float to. Maybe they could fish? If the ice remained strong enough to go out there. He’d send Blanky but his damn leg would probably punch through. A thaw was as bad as a freeze it seemed.

Crozier turned and trudged down the very edge of the coast, keeping half an eye on the men ahead, and half on the beast inland. There weren’t even any damn bears, to kill just that thing following them.

Ice, rocks and ice.

 He pointed his telescope out to sea. Far in the distance one of the melt points seem to churn briefly. A dark pool in all that white. Sea creatures would rise and gain breath the vanish for minutes if not hours below. But too far out to be of use and they had no skills in hunting such things. He wished he had paid more attention when he had visited these lands before as a Lieutenant. But it had not been the done thing to learn from the Eskimaux. The English were civilised after all. They had tins.

‘The English are idiots,’ he growled to himself and moved on. ‘If they had listened we might all know how to catch a meal.’

There was nothing here. He pocketed the telescope, he would try further up the coast or head out after supper while the men slept. He clambered upwards and Crozier was about to mount the ridge and rejoin his crew when he saw the body.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad stuff happens to the boys.  
> Just your average chapter description there.

‘What in God’s name?’ Francis muttered.

The coast swept high and jagged before him. A crescent of rock formed a small harbour and above it a modest cliff overhung a gravel beach. Crozier moved towards the shape which lay there and as he did his advancing men vanished out of view behind the rock, the landscape muffling the noise of their procession. He did not pause to halt them, he could catch up quickly enough and whoever this person was before him now needed help and urgently.

He was still a hundred yards away but the thing was thrown into relief but the dark ground around it and wet pebbles beneath. The rounded shape of a bare head against slumped shoulders, tapering then to a waist and the indistinct form of legs beneath. A man? It was hard to tell, but Francis could imagine no woman in these parts, let alone one alone and abandoned on a barren coast. Hurriedly he clambered across outcrops and stumbled into deceptive pits of snow, his eyes fixed on the lump, as though it might move at any moment.

As he grew closer the shape became more defined. He, if it was a he, was curled on his side, his back to the Captain, and seemed devoid of clothing. Christ exposed in this cold he must be dead, and indeed his skin seemed to lack any sign of health. He was curiously, ominously grey, unlike the bright white of the ice or snow which speckled the little cove, and e’en from this distance Francis could see the brighter colour of blood across his back. His upper limbs appeared stunted, perhaps lost entirely to hungry sea animals. This was no man he closed in upon but a corpse. And a bloated one at that, turned hoary with a watery death.

The sun glanced above the cliff and he held his hand before his eyes as he moved but his hurried steps had slowed and he cast an eye about him lest the body had companions, alive, dead or predatory, lingering to feast more upon the carcase. Seeing none he edged forward and tried to train his eyes upon the details before him. He was a big man, he judged, heavy set, broad and thick muscled once.

An Esquimaux perhaps? He could not be one of Crozier’s own?

He thought of the men he had lost to the waves themselves, fallen oe’rbaord or buried at sea and the grey shape before took on a new import. The smallest of men could look large when they had soaked in the brine long enough. In a flurry of horror he wondered if one of his lost crew had been washed up, spat out by the water and denied their rest. Billy Orrens had been the first to drown, but most of the men after him had been stored in the Dead Room aboard the _Terror._ The only other man he could think of to fall to the sea was…

Francis groaned. What sick Fate would send Sir John back to him now, half rotted? And yet the body was large and the man had been of hefty build, taller than Francis, taller than even James.

He stopped twenty feet from the corpse and tried to steady himself, suddenly convinced of what he would see when he rolled it to reveal its face. Franklin, bloody Franklin, his heavy jaw and pudgy cheeks, thick waist and pendulous belly reduced to a  a putrid slough of naked decomposition. An image struck. Would the sea have eaten at his eyes?

‘Stop it,’ Crozier told himself firmly, logically aware that his imagination was oe’erwraught with fatigue. The current would not carry them in this direction even if it might remove a uniform or funeral wrappings. E’en if by some freak of nature’s tides  it were his old commander what ill would Franklin wish upon him or the men now? His spirit would not walk these lands with vengeance at its heart, only pity, if it walked at all. No, he was long gone. This thing was flesh alone whoe’er’s soul it once contained.

Francis moved forward a few more steps and the ice groaned behind him. The sun was in his eyes and glancing off the swollen skin in a gruesome shine. He looked the hunched shoulders on the ground some fifteen feet away, his eyes narrowing in question. There was a slash, deep and purple-red from the mid-section of the right shoulder and down diagonally across the back, and from between the parted lips of skin pushed forth a thick layer of something obscene. The blood was minimal. What in Hell had happened to this man?

The Beast had attacked Sir John, left its marks and taken limbs. It could yet be him. Crozier glanced down to try and make out the man’s legs, indeed it did not seem this cadaver was possessed of two at all, but one long leg and a queer shaped foot, bent against the ground, twisted at the ankle. In equal parts horror and intrigue Crozier forced himself forward.

He stepped under the shadow of the cliff face and the sun dipped behind it at last, the dazzle leaving his eyes, blinding him a moment as he adjusted. He looked down at his feet and the remains before him, and as though calling to him with the last of its strength, the body let out a gasp.

He nearly flew from the cove there an then as the rush of air left the thing’s lungs and jetted upward but in moments the realisation came to him and his face split to a grin, wide and stupid with relief, and then a laugh, hale but desperate.  Francis held his sides and bent at the waist in shame for his foundless fears and supernatural inklings. When the feeling subsided he scrubbed at his face with a sigh, and tried not to notice how unhinged he must appear, chuckling away at his mistake, glad he had been unobserved in his fear.

He stepped up to the ‘corpse,’ and the air burst forth again from the damaged whale before him.

Crozier dropped to his knees by the creature, set down his shotgun, and inspected closely. It was young, barely the size of a man, and of the species oft found around Greenland for hunting. Something had hurt it, he saw, and the slash upon the man’s back turned out to be a deep, neat edged groove along the animal’s side, the blubber spilling from within. Its heavy head lay still upon the pebbles, its black eyes curiously unseeing for a thing still clinging hard to life. It let out another puff as Francis knelt there, and droplets of sea water and bloodied mucus spattered his coat.

At once he felt pained. The beluga was oddly human, in its appearance and its manners. Sailors had mistaken them before now for people or mermaids and there was something spiritual about them. Had he not been feared to be called a blasphemer he would have sworn them to have souls. He had spent too much time close to them in his years on deck, watching their habits, hearing their song to doubt that theirs was a life rich and full unto itself. 

They calved and suckled, raised their young in protective groups, and the creatures were sociable things. They had followed _Terror_ and _Erebus_ as they left Greenland years before, diving and playing in the water. And he knew them to have bonds between one another, like a proper family. When one beached, more often than not others did too, whether by blind impulse to follow or by loyalty and an urge to help, he suspected the latter. He looked around and sure enough another, larger, body lay further into the cove, more hidden in shadow. The thing’s mother perhaps.

How many were there? And how? What confusion possessed them to lodge themselves this way? Had the melt given time for them to beach and brutally closed their escape? And what of its injuries, had it been hunted and slipped the harpoon? The wound was neat and no Esquimaux would leave the thing to die like this, theirs was a slaughter couched in ceremony and respect. Something of the elements had done this, a bear perhaps or an odd accident . The cruelty of the land was not confined to men alone it seemed but inflicted upon all things which dared to exist.  Francis’ joy at finding meat was tempered at the realisation that hardship was common to all life here. Nothing was spared.

The thing puffed sadly and he studied its large round head, the bulbous forehead creating the impression of a face beneath, the odd way it seemed to smile, even now. Crozier bit his lip, he wondered if it suffered, how long it had lain there waiting to die, and what made it hang on when its situation was so very dire. Did these animals understand hope, he wondered. He thought of his men and placed a bare hand gently on its strange sleek skin. It was cool to touch and yet within he knew a heart, so like his own, beat warmly.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly, ‘Sorry that you laid here in pain but grateful too that you waited. So grateful…’

He pulled out the pistol and pressed it firmly to the whale’s head. Its dark eye seemed to look back at him peacefully.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered.

He pulled the trigger.

The great roar above him sent shale tumbling around his ears as the crash of the Beast upon the cliff shook the rock to its centre. Shielding his eyes to the pelting dust and gravel Crozier looked up, half risen from his place by the whale, and caught the sight of red jaws wide in wrath. The Tuunbaq towered above him on the cliff edge, raised up onto two legs, its arms wide and claws bared and then it tipped forward, e’en as he scrambled backwards and found his feet to take aim, but the pistol had been discharged. He cast it aside, and scurried towards the shotgun as the world around him seemed to shudder with the anger of the thing that had stalked him. The Tunnbaq landed on all fours above, the very beach under Crozier boots seemed to lurch and he fell unto his back, rolled hard and felt the gun dig into his chest beneath him.

He did not pause but forced himself up, the overhang of the cliff throwing sharp shards of rock down onto him like rain.

‘Come on then!’ He shouted, his accent thick with rage, ‘Finish it!’

He stumbled out onto the beach and raised his eyes to the cliff edge. There it was. He had ne’er been so close before. It hunched over the precipice with malevolent intent, its great shoulders broader than the height of a man, its mouth a dark cave, the stink of its breath in the air even from when Francis stood, staring it down, forcing a challenge, aware all the time it could snap him in two in moment, but damned if he would show fear now.

He burned with anger. The kind he knew made him reckless and cost him sense but damn it, what sense was left for him to claim now. This place had them on their knees, and death enclosed them in tighter circles by each passing minute. Now here it stood before him and he would fight it tooth and nail. It had taken Franklin and Gore, it had killed his seamen, it had maimed Blanky and it had stalked his dying crew for miles. It toyed with them for pleasure, it toyed with them for game. It had no need of their flesh but it took it anyway.

He raised the shotgun, ‘Die you bastard, die like the mangy cock sucking cur that you are and we will feast on _you_ tonight!’ He pulled, the shot blasted through the air and the thing reared with another roar, but Francis knew in that second he had barely scratched it. The roar was triumphant, it was mocking and as its jaws hinged shut again he locked eyes with it.

Blue eyes, like ice, like water. Like his own.

It blew out a long stream of breath, its mouth twitching, and then it turned on his heel.

And he knew.  He knew what it would do now. Francis flung the spent gun aside and pelted down the beach. The cliff was too steep to climb and he would lose precious seconds retracing his steps to a point where he could ascend, but run he must, for the Tuunbaq was headed out after his men, chasing them down as they pulled with painful slowness along the coast of the Isle. He wanted to shout, to warn them, but his voice would never carry over that cliff and his breath was too ragged with exertion. They must have heard the shots, the roar of that Thing, pray god they have time to arm themselves. He scrabbled across rock and pushed himself up. At last he turned. Now he might warn them, now.

But it had already closed the gap. The whales had distracted Francis long enough for the men to haul a third of a mile down the coast and now the Tuunbaq crashed into their midst as easily as child’s ball into skittles. The small dark shapes of his men scattered. Guns fired. He watched in horror as the last boat in the line was tipped like a leaf on the breeze, the Beast stooping and sweeping with one claw laden fist, before the whole craft spun upwards and crashed down into the earth with all it contained, possessions, weapons, men. The creature grasped one by the waist in its jaws and tore him asunder, innards spilling onto snow and dirt.  More shots fired and the Tuunbaq lolloped seemingly untouched towards the second vessel in tow.

Towards James.

‘Jesus…. No!’

Crozier ran.

It circled there, its casual lumbering trot slowed to a steady, measured pace. Behind it debris and the dying littered its wake. Around it men were fleeing and fighting in equal measure. It consumed nothing, it was distracted by nothing, not bullet wounds, not harpoons.  It peered into the boat as it passed, turning and pacing down it far side, inspecting, scenting, searching; batting aside any who interfered.

From where Crozier was situated, running hard behind the crew, but downhill of the unravelling hell before him, Francis could not see the contents of the craft. His lungs on fire and his legs searing he pushed on, closing hard upon the waiting thing, and without any idea as to what he would do when he reached it. All that he knew was that it must not touch James. He staggered and tripped through the remains of the first destroyed vessel, crunched over splintered wood and bloodied bones snapped and raw. So many dead, so many faces, erased from the world in the arc of a claw and cast across the rocks like dolls.

 He skidded across shale and clattered into a gun locker, once held in the keel, now half split and jettisoned by the force of the creature. Dragging his knees across the sharp gravel and broken equipment, his slops ripping, Crozier fumbled out  a musket while all the while ahead the panicked shout of his men seemed to grow less not more.

Dying, they were all dying. His hands were wet with blood when he pushed himself up by his knees. Half running he got the thing loaded, the second boat ahead, the Tuunbaq now heaving at it with its shoulder, ready to tip it too and trample whatever it held. Francis raised the gun, but he knew if he were to make a dent in this beast he must be closer, his aim must be true, its head, he had to go for its head, so he ran closer.

The Beast turned with a growl at the sound of his approach and glared down a full man’s height taller than the Captain even on all fours. It held his eye, and then with a ponderousness suggestive of a cruel intelligence it took a pace towards him.

‘That’s it you spawn of a pox ridden whore, take _me_ on!’

Its jaws split open, and Crozier saw the torn blue of a naval uniform snagged between its teeth. Like flame it surged straight to his heart and all beyond the Tuunbaq narrowed and vanished.  The sound that ripped from his own mouth was feral at the sight and he lunged forward, narrowly dodging the salivating Beast as it lashed towards him, but then he fell and tumbled. A pain in his back, sudden and bracing knocked the wind from him and and the earth shook again as the Beast loomed into view, tread after heavy tread, feet away now, and the great gaping void of its jaws.

The rocket hissed through the air to his right, low and straight and flaming and plunged into the Tuunbaq’s side. It reared, and at once the air became scented with the singe of hair and burn of meat. A howl like he had ne’er heard before tore from its mouth and there was blood, red and bright, pouring from its skin. It spattered the ground around Crozier, its stained the fur on the beasts flank. But it kept coming, its eyes never leaving him. Over him now, its legs a prison around his body, its huge head leaning down so that each breath blew like a gale from a graveyards gate against his face. From the depths of is mouth he could hear a clicking, creaking sound, the sound of its jaws readying themselves and of something deeper and more dangerous. There lay its power, its throat. The Tunnbaq breathed in.

It was as though it tried to suck the very life from his own lungs and in response he breathed in deep and hard and held fast. Whate’er it tried to take it would not have.  It would _not_.

_James in the tent, his flank half rotten, his gums blackened; James pleading with him not to give up. James who would sacrifice himself in a heartbeat, if only Francis carried on. James whose courage fed him daily and always, always that tiny flame of hope in his eyes._

_God wants you to live, Francis, he wants you to live._

He felt something knit in his chest, dig hard into his flesh around his heart and cling there. It pulled and tugged about in the force of the Tuunbaq’s power, but it was resolute, indefatigable and his alone. He glared up at the beast through the haze that had descended, the tendrils of his Vision lending him strength to the strange tug o’ war and softly, softly, cradling him in surety.

‘I will not die, today,’ he said and exhaled slowly, clearly into the cold air. His breath hung before him suspended like smoke before it gently dissipated to the breeze untouched and unclaimed. He saw the thing’s pupils dilate in rage, felt it inhale hard, redoubling its effort to consume him, but Francis was intact. He breathed in. He breathed out. He breathed.

_God wants you to live._

Crozier felt himself smile. He cocked the gun, aimed up to its throat and pulled.

The Beast howled and staggered but it would not die quickly. The blood rained down around him, but it fought on. He rolled clumsily to avoid a huge foot as it flailed above, trying to steady itself and then another rocket whizzed through, plunged into the earth just short of Francis, missing the Tuunbaq by inches as it lunged for the Captain again. Its claws came down hard onto top of the missile as it stumbled and it swept it to one side in a final act of defiance. If it must die it would take his men with it, and him too.  Crozier yelled and saw the rocket smash hard against the side of the second boat, sticking; its fuse fizzing in warning, down, down, down until there was no warning left.

He dove to one side, his eyes fixed upon the craft and just the leisurely beat of a single stolen second before the ammunition within ignited and the whole thing blew, flinging him through the air with splinters and metal, the screams of men and the choked off death cry of the Beast.

Francis’ head cracked hard onto rock and the world turned black. He clung, he clung to consciousness, but it was leaving him. Soft waves of darkness, the fading of pain. Quiet, quiet, the hiss of fire.

_Sleep._

James. The boat. James.

_Sleep now._

Somewhere he heard weeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beluga whales really do look like people and like manatees have been mistaken for them by sailors. Check them out they are kinda adorable. Sorry I killed one. The whale makes a return in future chapters. Sort of.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This has been a beast of a chapter so its turned into more like two.
> 
> Sophia pushes Francis to the climax of his story. The devastation of the Tuunbaq is revealed. Crozier counts the survivors and makes a pledge to end all this misery once and for all and... the Visions make a return.

15.

‘You killed it,’ Sophia said. He tried not to react to the tone of her voice. It sounded too close to awe. Hickey’s murder was forgotten it seemed. She gazed at him like a hero. He felt a fraud.

‘We did.’

The light was fading, the lamps lit in the street outside the parkland and the first hints of the moon above in clearing skies. Francis looked out across the now deserted pond, the fallen snow just thick enough to cover all trace of skates. Snow covered everything in the end, all signs of passage, footsteps and sledge trails.  Tent rings and fire pits. Empty tins of poison and spent pistols. Torn books and lost trinkets. Blood and bodies and death.  He thought of the cove and of the debris that littered that far away coast. It was winter now. There would be snow.

She was still looking at him with such expectation, a spark in her eyes. She wet her lips and a puff of breath floated on the air. Sophia, he was sure, sensed there was more to come and urged him to speak with her glance but the weight of the snow on the bones of the lost pressed down upon his thoughts, deadening them, slowing them to nothing. He was suddenly so tired.

‘It is growing late and you must be cold,’ he remarked, ‘ I will walk you home.’

‘Francis I have already told you…’

He stood and offered her his arm. ‘You must eat, Sophia, eat and rest properly, we can resume another day.’

She huffed at him and pushed herself up off the bench with such a petulant of motions that he could not help but smile and remember just why he had loved her so.

‘It is some distance to home,’ she said manipulatively. ‘We could…’

‘We will hail a carriage,’ he said bluntly.

She glowered but took his arm as they trod through the crunch of ice to the gates, ‘You will do no such thing, Francis, we shall walk, and if you insist on me going back you will continue your story until the moment I am deposited within the hall and forced to my supper. In fact,’ she turned to him as the moved, ‘You must eat with us, how rude of me not to offer.’

Francis turned his eyes to the path before them, ‘I must decline,’ he said automatically, a small twist of horror in his gut at the very idea of company.

‘Please Francis,’ the weight of her against his arm, the tilt of her chin at his shoulder as she gazed up at him, pale and cold, ice in her hair.

‘I do not think Lady Franklin will appreciate the finer details of this tale,’ he groused. He was in no fettle for censorship or adaptation. The marvellous stories James told at the gala would be prettied up and twisted for the assembled gentry. Francis had no such skill in making heroes of frightened dying boys or legend from necessary and terrible action. All he knew was the reality. That it had been hard, damned hard, brutal, undignified, and painful, and that there was no glory in any of it, only loss.

But Sophia insisted. ‘Then finish the story before we arrive, just between us, as you promised. She will entertain herself with her own tales I’m sure.’

Francis snorted, ‘Oh?’

‘She has been as busy as a bee in spring these last few years,’ Sophia said, her hip pushing against his thigh like a metronome as they walked and her free hand coming to join the clasp of their elbows. ‘I swear she knows the maps o’ the North better than any at the Admiralty, the movements of the tides…’

He nodded, ‘Most likely. It is some time since any of those men applied themselves to the veracity of that place.’

‘Then come,’ She tugged at his arm, ‘At the very least let me give you a warm meal and a place to dry, you are cold and soaked and there is a good fire in our hearth. Lady Franklin will tell you of her exploits and I will help you deflect the rest. Just tell me Francis, now as we walk,  the aftermath of that Beast… and your rescue… you speak of arctic summer, that was when you were found is it not? ’

He looked down at her hopeful expression and sighed.

‘It is a sorry tale, with a pitiful end.’

‘I already know the end Francis,’ she squeezed at his arm, ‘You are here, are you not?’

‘Sophia,’ he said in frustration, ‘that day we lost o’er four dozen men.  So many we could not give them proper burial. And in such a mess of violence that their remains lie scattered still in a barren loveless place to be feasted upon by scavengers and brutes. Those men were my responsibility, they had lives and families and futures and all of that was torn from them. I did not bring them home. I failed them. That I returned alive does not make the outcome less cruel for them. My end does not matter.’

‘It does to me,’ she said quietly, ‘And how you reached it. That you are here would be enough for me  and yet, I must know how you survived… if I am to understand at all.’

His eyes were heavy and his pause a beat too long. He could not face it, the story of those final days, the last ditch efforts to make rescue, the expanse of grief, the fear. The weight of it all drew him to a stop and he chewed the inside of his mouth in an attempt to keep control.

‘Francis,’ she was close. He felt the rustle of her silks against his legs as she stretched up to him, the cold touch of her lips on his cheek. It lingered. ‘Come home,’ she said. ‘Finish your story.’

 

 

He woke to the smell of burning and to the distant coughs and moans of men. The darkness was slow to recede from his vision and his senses flurried to understand all that surrounded him. The rock was cold and hard against his back, his head throbbed, and the pain shot in lines from his neck to his thighs, following the beat of his pulse. But he was alive. Of that he was sure.

There was something heavy on his chest, draped half across his body, something which tickled at his nose and pressed against his breath so that his ribs ached to find purchase. He groaned and tried to shift, stretched out his free arm to the ground and drew back sharply when the heat of cinders scorched his fingertips. The weight shifted.

‘Francis?’ A scrabble of force against gravel, the sound of boots and the weight moved up his chest. All was still dim, a grey veil before his sight. ‘Francis?’

‘James?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank God,’ he seized him in his arms.

The white of his teeth in a re-joining smile, the first thing Crozier could see and name. Relief poured through him high and merry but coloured by the hysteria of a fear released. He wanted to laugh, but he felt tears at the corners of his eyes.

A hand cupped his face, a thumb pressed against the wetness that betrayed him.

‘Good Lord man you scared the life from me,’ James said softly. Crozier squinted, tried to focus on his face. It was blackened with soot, dirtier than he had e’er seen his refined fellow officer, and there was a cut above his left eye, matted in grime.  None of it mattered. He found his gaze at last, the warmth within and held on. Briefly James pressed his forehead against his own, his lips a ghost’s breath from his mouth.

‘Can you stand?’ James said after a moment, still heavy atop of him. The weight was a comfort, but the pain in Crozier’s body protested.

‘I… I can’t get my breath…’

‘Sorry! Sorry!’ James moved at last, efficient, but oddly flustered, ‘When the boat blew I ran to you but I’m afraid I’m rather tired…’ he smiled ruefully as though apologising for overdoing it at a game of racquets not collapsing half dead upon his comrade , ‘Legs went from under me. All a bit too much… I just had to see you were alright… well… in one piece anyway…’ he rambled on, casting a look around him.

‘How… bad is it?’ Francis tried to lever himself up without much success. The pain flared again in his head, sharp now, the grey edges of his vision pulsed. He relented and laid back until a wave of nausea abated. James placed a blackened hand on his arm and waited. He said nothing, just turned until his profile cut sharply against flame. There was so much smoke above them the sky seemed dark.

‘James?’

‘We have lost two of the boats and all within,’ James said flatly.

‘The sick?’

‘Gone, too weak to escape far enough when the Beast came for us.’

‘James how did you get out?’

‘I told you I could walk,’ James gazed proudly down his nose at his prone Captain, ‘Just..’ he flinched, ‘Not terribly far. But show me that thing coming at the men and I’m damned if I am going to lounge about in a damned boat when I know there are arms on the first that could do it damage.’

‘Jesus Christ, James, you…’

‘What? Could have had myself killed?’ he raised an eyebrow. ‘Says the man who chased it from the coast and called it out for a fight.’

‘It was a fairer fight than the one it began with the men. I am not injured.’

James cast an eye over his body. ‘You are now…’

As if to punctuate his point Crozier’s head stabbed again with pain. He moaned and leaned to one side afraid he may vomit. James helped him prop himself more comfortably then rubbed at his arm.

‘Don’t move yet,’ James said looking around, ‘There is no hurry. Those who could, ran at my command, they will make their way back in their own time. Those who could not…’ his jaw set in an effort to still his emotions but the grooves in his cheeks deepened, a tell he had ne’er been able to hide. ‘Just… stay still, Francis, for now. Goodsir is amongst us… Bridgens too, one of them will come to you soon.’

‘They survived.’

‘And they are tending to the wounded, the few that remain,’ he added softly.

Crozier was suddenly glad to be laid on his back. James’ face as he watched the scene around him told him all he needed to know, and shielded him too from the worst of it. There would be time enough for that, now with the image of the Tuunbaq’s throat in his mind and his recent very personal brush with death, he had enough to be going on with.

‘What did you do?’ he asked James as much as to hear his voice as for any enlightenment, ‘I feared you were lost, man.’

Fitzjames considered and when he spoke again his voice held a new timbre.

‘I heard your shot, your first,’ James said, ‘and that drew my curiosity, readings you mentioned, not hunting. I wondered if you had found something edible and was half tempted to get out then and investigate, I’d missed lunch after all and it was so frightfully boring in that boat, I’d been laying around all day snoozing…’ it was as though he told a tale at dinner, false jollity of language, a series of events spun with gold. It was his defence, Francis realised, so he let him have it, half wishing the words would spin a blanket for both of them and cocoon them.

‘Whales,’ Francis said dully, ‘There are whales in the cove.’

James raised his eyebrows, ‘Fresh?’

‘If they have not been carried off by a bear in the meantime, yes.’

A sage nod. ‘Well that is… encouraging.’

Francis cocked an eyebrow at him, ‘Naught can be said to be encouraging at this moment, James.’

Fitzjames ignored him. He did not need reality highlighted when he was trying to make his tale. ‘At the second shot the men came to a halt,’ James continued, ‘there was confusion and then we saw it, headed straight for us.’

‘Christ.’

‘I knew guns alone would not make a mark, the marines had fled, and then I remembered that I still carried the keys to the missile chest,’ he shrugged. ‘It was worth a try.’

Francis looked at him in wonder. ‘Worth a try? Christ James such quick thinking in so dire a context is to be admired. And alone? You did this alone?’

James’ façade cracked a little. This was no tale at dinner after all, if it had been he would have embraced the compliment and pinned it to his chest with honour.

‘It was not quick thinking, Francis,’ he said his voice softening,  ‘it was anger. Only that. Anger and fear. By the time you took the Beast on at the boat’s side I’d ne’er wanted anything dead so much in my life and now….’ He turned his face again to the funeral pyre that burned behind them, ‘Now I have taken half the men with it. It is a disaster, Francis, I saw red, there was no _thought_ involved, only passion. And once again, my wayward command has led to death. It is Carnivale all over again.’

Francis sat up, too sudden and too hard, but ignored the wave of pain it caused. ‘No, James, no. That thing killed those men, and you saved the rest, you showed only initiative and courage.’

‘The rocket I fired ignited that boat,’

‘The rocket you fired skewered that creature.’

‘The second almost hit you.’

‘But it did not.’

‘The beast used it against us! Blew up our ammunition and killed any who had lingered!’

‘If it had not, the injured Beast would have destroyed the men within in minutes regardless, it was hell bent on destruction, James. No, you have saved us… you have saved _me_. Please James…’

James nodded once and placed his hand on Francis shoulder, squeezed. The world spun for a moment, Crozier’s eyes fluttered shut. He fought to open them again.

‘You should lay back down.’

But it was too late.

Crozier looked past James. Until now he had only smelt the fire, seen the shadows of its flame. Now it lay before him. His eyes ranged over all he saw, a muted horror in his throat, to great to process, too large to feel in its entirety.  His head throbbed sickly, the smoke dense in his throat.

The destroyed boat was so damaged as to be unrecognisable, upended, with just shards of blackened burning wood and flame. The ruptured blasted carcase of the Beast, charring darkly in the bright light of the arctic summer, twisted and grotesque, the stench from it like naught he had encountered. It did not even smell like meat but of something putrid, something rotten, dredged from the sewers and cooked in fire. Good riddance to it, it would not trouble them now. He decided he would not let his men touch it. The thing was poison.

His men. What remained of his men. He let the last of his anger for the Beast subside and sought out their bodies with compassionate eyes. Thrown from the blast, torn into pieces, unidentifiable, they were cremated and broken souls. He hoped it had been quick for most, but at the outskirts there were those whose positions told him it had been a slower death, by fire, or before the Tuunbaq had perished, by evisceration and torment.

Elsewhere and amongst, wood and supplies, tents and sacks, scattered, torn, broken, burning. Lost to them now. The few possessions that had survived the march thus far raged and cracked in fire. The explosion of shot within the gun lockers, the pop of tins o’erheated by the stove of the pyre. Burning fragments scattered for yards around and a thick black smoke billowed oe’r the ice, and upwards, upwards as though it might block out the sun.

He pushed himself to his knees and fought back the grey veil, feeling James rise with him hurriedly,  to try to steady his still swaying stance. The two supported one another, James’ breathing laboured in pain. Crozier thought of the wounds in his flank and cast a look at his stained slops. The blood that soaked his uniform would most likely be his own. James caught him looking, drew his eye away and nodded out over the carnage before him, so Francis looked past the fire, his vantage easier at his full height than from his position on the ground.

The first boat, was o’erturned. Shredded bodies reddened the snow and darkened the earth. As far as the eye could see, pieces of men, of uniform and flesh, of abandoned weapons and the footprints of final steps. Crozier saw past it all, pushed the bloodstains from his vision and focused hard on what was left. He glanced behind, the last boat from which James secured his rockets, was abandoned but untouched.

‘There will be supplies,’ he said. ‘We must gather them tonight, send a team for the whale, and make camp downwind of this.’

James looked sideways at him, Francis grit his teeth. Though they stood on the sixth level of hell itself, amidst their own burning tombs, they lived yet. Command must be taken, some kind of plan made. He had to start somewhere. He could not give up.

Men were straggling back now from further inland. His head still pounding but the grey receding, Francis took a rough count of twenty upright bodies. A few more lay around the boats struggling to rise or being tended. Less than thirty all in all, he realised like a punch, but by God those who had survived had a preternatural ability to do so and upon this he must now count.

 He focused on the living, sought out the faces amongst them. Peglar, Irving, Little; good men all. Tozer and Armitage brought up the rear with a handful of others. And there to the left of the little band making its way back, was Jopson, shirt torn, sleek dark hair a fright, blood and soot and grime debasing his normally so neat appearance. He raised a hand when he saw his Captain, and Francis allowed himself a smile and another sweet burst of relief. Good men, his loyal steward, worth saving, worth all of it.

Beside him James gazed at the ground, his face like marble, but his arm still steady at Francis' back.

Crozier’s heart ached but his mind spoke clearly. None of this now could be changed but while men yet walked these shores he would bring them home. In all his years at sea he had learned the tide would give and it would take, and it had taken enough, it must turn now. He would not allow more death in pain and sickness, no more dwindling numbers or despair. He would not allow one more soul to bear last burdens alone in this wilderness without the love of those dearest.  This was not an end for any man and he would hold those who remained e’en closer to his breast and haul them from these wastes himself if it took the last of his strength and courage. Death would not be their fate while he yet lived.

The world around him shimmered.  He grasped James arm.

‘Francis? Francis? Not now, the men approach!’

_Dead whales in the cove. Broken boats and blackened bodies. And somewhere to the North a ship was waiting._

Somewhere to North. He glanced at the ice, at the line of the coast before him.  Grey sky, white ice, pale land. How many miles?

‘I can see…’ he started.

‘Francis, no!’

He staggered, the pain flaring and then vanishing into nothing, the soft embrace of the Vision taking him.

_The arctic sun was high and bright, and a cool breeze blew, strong enough to lift the birds o’erhead, but not enough to truly chill. Tents were pitched in the earth, a dull brown soil with streaks of snow, and rocks held the canvas edges safe from errant wind. At the centre a campfire burned brightly, a pot suspended above, something wholesome bubbling within. Even in the Vision he could smell it. Like stew. The thick scent of meat. His mouth was wet._

_He forced himself to look beyond supper. Beyond the piles of warm furs inside the tents and the pouches of tobacco sat atop of journals and papers. Maps. Tracings of the coast on which he now stood. Crozier looked to the frozen sea. How far? How far?  Fifty miles, perhaps more, but close. Close was the worst thing in the world. In all that nothing his battered company of men would vanish. Too far away too see with the naked eye, too far even for a telescope._

_Two men moved at the edge of camp, their stance relaxed, their slops still clean, shot in the pockets but the barrels of their guns broken open. Theirs was not a duty of any urgency or care, they simply waited. He wanted to shake them, he wanted to make them hear. They were just out of reach, just out of sight and yet their eyes bent in the direction of Crozier’s men as they chatted and whiled away idle minutes. Too far._

_A sled approached from inland, a team of light furred dogs in harness and a man at the end of the reins. Another on the back and two more running alongside. There was not room for them, there were caribou strapped to the frame._

_‘Avast!’_

_‘Captain!’_

_The man jumped down e’en as the dogs skid to a halt, everyone turned their backs to the Coast. Francis cursed._

_‘A fine haul today, Sir James!’ one watchman said._

_‘Get it stripped down,  fetch us a meal, Barnes, then salt the rest. We may need it when we find them.’_

_‘Yes, sir,’_

_Ross dropped his muffler and removed his cap, proceeded to the fireside amidst the warm welcome of his men as his kill was hauled from the sled and prepared. Crozier wanted to scream, to haul him to the edge of camp and force his gaze upon the horizon. But there was nothing there to see._

_‘Any sign James?’  McClintock approached from the officers tent, his voice laced with a revealing Irish brogue. ‘I sent a group south but they have not yet returned.’_

_‘Nothing to the East, Francis, but I suspect he would not take them that direction, the land is too harsh. He will navigate by the coast. Await your team, see if they have made sightings.’_

_‘We should not push too far South, James, we must consider our return or risk a freeze. We should consult with the men, garner opinion...’_

_‘Dammit Francis, we will not turn back now. We have come too far and remain strong. And if we are frozen in this year? What of it? We are well stocked. Are you so afraid of one foul winter?’_

_‘The men will…’_

_‘The men will do as I damn well  say and no argument amongst them! Half of them have served with him, Francis, they will not see him lost. No,’ he collected himself,  ‘we push on, we still have time this season and we make good mileage….’_

_‘With your dogs,’ McClintock grumbled with a half raised eyebrow._

_Ross shot him a rather smug smile, ‘Yes, Francis with my dogs. Your men can haul if they wish but I will keep my pups for speed and distance. We are searching, we must remain light. Once we find them you may grunt and sweat your way in harness to join us at  your own pace.’_

_McClintock shook his head apparently shelving the idea of their retreat for now but as he vanished into his tent Francis turned a black look upon him. Eventually Ross would concede and return to the ship. The weeks ticked on and no man wished to be stuck on ice in blizzards. He had to force their direction somehow, he had to find a way._

_As though conscious of his ghost, Ross stepped at last towards the south. He wandered down the coastline in thought and paused o’erlooking the frozen sea. Alone he looked out to the ice  for long minutes, and Crozier’s unseen form stood beside him, close enough that his breath might touch his skin. Oh that he could. Oh that this gift could work two ways and impart any kind of message._

_Francis reached before him, hovered his hand above James’ arm. Would he even feel him if he brushed against his slops. He pressed down. For a second Ross’ eyes flicked to his left and he frowned, but then a pulse of pain made the Vision shimmer and the moment passed. The scent of cooking meat wafted on the breeze and the shift and crack of the firepit behind seemed too loud. He realised the scent did not come from the camp but from the pyre._

‘What’s he doing?’ a voice beyond the veil, ‘He reaches for something.’

_Crozier tried to focus. The carnage of their private hell fought to take him back. He clung on against the flickering of the image, willing Ross to turn just a few degrees more to the West. Willing him to watch the ocean just long enough. There were miles to go, he knew, such distance yet between them, any sign could be a thing so easily missed._

_‘We are near,’ Francis whispered by his friend’s side, ‘So near.’_

‘To whom does he speak? Captain? Captain Crozier, sir?’

‘Leave him,’ James’s voice close by, defensive and challenging, ‘He will return to us soon.’

_‘To the South. Watch the cliff.’_

_Ross turned just a fraction, set his mouth and pressed his lips together firmly. He let his eyes range across the solid ocean, rock and soil. Searching. Hoping. He pulled out a telescope and scanned deeper where land met sea._

_It shimmered._

‘No!’ Crozier shouted.

The sound of voices around him now, the acrid stench of burning flesh at Crozier’s throat, the world fading in and out of the Vision, mixing death and grime and flame with still white ice and calm breezes. Fitzjames’ arm around him, solid, as real as the pain in his skull and Goodsir nearby, Jopson and Tozer too, their brows knit in matching furrows.

A shout and yards behind him the destroyed boat cracked and tall shards of wood fell into the pit of it with a crash. Sparks flew, the whole thing shuddered and broke, a great belch of smoke forced from its guts. Someone dragged him away, jostling him, pushing hard. The pinch of their fingers deep in his flesh as much to force him from the Vision as from the fire.

Crozier wrestled with the pain, close to tears as the scene with Ross deserted him. He clutched at his head, and the last vestiges tried to free themselves from his consciousness, but he clung on, as though dragging himself by his fingertips, on to that bleached and empty beach, above all else he must lead him, he must _see_. The air lurched.

_Ross was further from him now, a distance of some twenty feet, his back to Crozier and his face turned South. His image flickered against flames and then briefly he was whole again against a peaceful sky._

_‘Where are you, Francis?’  Crozier heard him say. ‘Show me.’_

_Francis looked helplessly to the horizon, the Vision fading._

_Slowly, from behind the cliffs to the south, black smoke spooled upwards. Darkness took Francis then, but the echo of Ross' triumphant shout followed ._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confusingly James 'Handsome' Ross and Francis McClintock went looking for James 'Handsome' Fitzjames and Francis Crozier in 1848. Add to that Francis McClintock was in fact Irish as well and there's some pretty strange parallels between these crews. 
> 
> Please note also : No rescue will ever be straightforward in this Terrorverse. Nor will everyone get out alive.....


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Superstitious sailors do not appreciate Visions...
> 
> … and the consequences of that are dire for Francis and James.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Book!Crozier's detox from whiskey was deemed to be 'malaria' by Terror doctors to protect him (in the show it was gastroenteritis). I'm using malaria here.

Crozier felt himself lowered to the ground in quick, rough gesture. A second later something approaching a pillow was jammed beneath his aching skull.  Goodsir’s voice nearby, laced with an unfamiliar authority, ordered a man to retrieve his supplies, a mess of feet in movement answered. With difficulty Francis opened his eyes.

‘He is coming…’ he whispered, the image of Ross still fresh. He had seen the smoke, he had made the connection, he would come for them now. If he could convince the men, if he could lend them hope, they may band together and make it yet. James knelt beside him and Francis caught the direction of his glance, wary, before he leaned down swiftly to his ear.

‘Say nothing, for God’s sake,’ he hissed.

Crozier blinked at him dumbfounded as James leaned back again, adjusting his legs so that he may sit on the rock by his shoulder. He looked worn thin, pale beneath the soot, sticky with sweat and the patch of blood on his slops seemed to have spread. He cast another warning glance at Francis as Goodsir began to open Crozier’s slops in a cursory examination.

‘Is there aught else?’ the doctor was asking, ‘Apart from your head, Captain?’

His back and legs ached, but he suspected it was of no great import. He shook his head no, the throb and stab of his brain confirming his suspicions. Francis gasped and squeezed shut his eyes briefly as Goodsir’s fingers probed his neck and the deep slash above which oozed.

‘Will it mend?’ Jopson was hovering nearby, he saw.

‘Wounds of this kind can be deceptive,’ Goodsir was saying, ‘Though the skin may close a slow bleed within can not be discounted. He needs rest.’

‘We will make camp,’ James ordered, ‘Downwind,’ he said echoing Crozier’s earlier command.  ‘We must gather and burn the dead, then find our path once more.’ Crozier heard no response. ‘Well?’ Fitzjames declared.

The gathered men did not move.

‘What was that business, before?’ one ventured. James’ eyes widened.

‘Excuse me, Armitage?’

‘Before when he was stood there muttering at things unseen.’

‘He is injured, man!’

‘I ain’t seen no bash to the ‘ead that has that effect, sir.’ There was a mumble of assent. ‘Knock a man of his feet maybe, knock him cold, but he were standing, talking, looking at something right intent and… waving his arm as though he might grasp at it.’

James’ eyes measured the assembled gathering. His jaw twitched nervously. ‘That is enough. Your Captain is injured. A blow to the head can have all manner of implications, isn’t that so Mr Goodsir?’

Goodsir glanced up but fleetingly, at Fitzjames and then at the men around. He said nothing. There was a prey’s skittishness to his look.

‘We make camp,’ James reiterated.

‘He said ‘we are near,’’ Tozer piped up. ‘Near to what, _sir_?’ His eyes sought out Crozier’s in challenge.

‘It was a dream,’ James said before he could respond, ‘A meaningless dream.’

The men exchanged glances.

‘Near to death,’ someone coughed out from the back of the throng. There was a collective breath of debate.

‘Enough!’ James commanded. ‘Now, before this disaster, Captain Crozier here found us a supply of meat, down the coast there,’ he pointed, ‘I suggested you take a group and retrieve it Sgt Tozer.’

‘What kind of meat, sir?’

James bridled at the impertinence. ‘Whale.’

Again, the men eyed one another.

‘Whale, sir? Here when the sea is frozen?’

‘We must not question our luck,’ James said.

‘Begging your pardon sir but I think we must,’ Armitage continued despite his Commander’s steely glare, ‘You do not think it odd that whale should beach on a frozen coast just as we pass by, sir? And that he should be a muttering and pointing to himself in a trance just after? How did he know they were there, sir? Who sent them to him?’

‘Who sent them..? What? This is ridiculous,’ James scrabbled to his feet with effort. ‘Be grateful there is food at all, boy, for we have more need of it now that ever if we are to regain our strength and march on.’

‘March where?’ Tozer pulled himself up to his full and uniformed,  if ragged and dirty height. James looked at him in disbelief.

‘North! That is the plan, or had you forgotten?’

‘ _His_ plan… sir,’ Tozer pointed out.

The muttering became louder. Crozier thought he caught the word ‘witchcraft.’ He thought of his grandmother long ago, her home on the outskirts of the village, the hushed whispers of the locals.

Francis looked away. The growing discord could have only one outcome. Sailors were superstitious creatures and naught about their march so far, nay even about the expedition as a whole, would have done anything to calm their fears. Now stranded before the pyre of burning comrades, with a seemingly raving Captain and a pile of oddly convenient whale just down the shore he knew enough of their workings to understand exactly why they might baulk at the suggestion that they adhere to his commands.

‘He’s cursed,’ Collins cried suddenly, ‘He is _cursed_!’

A smatter of agreement and the tiniest flurry of excitement amongst the men. Crozier watched their faces, counted their numbers, tried to work out who remained upon his side. There were depressingly few.

‘Ever since we left the ships,’ Collins said suddenly caught by his enthusiasm and egged on by two dozen sets of eyes, ‘E’en before that wi’ that peculiar illness what laid him so low so long. Malaria they said… the man’s spent most o’ his life on the ice. Who gets malaria from ice, men?’

A louder agreement. Slowly Francis crawled to his feet, too vulnerable to be laid upon his back now. He squashed his nausea and tried to still the spin of the earth upon its axis. Cautiously, carefully he stood, making sure to show his hands were empty to the waiting throng.

‘It must be spirits, or merpeople, or dark magic in his Irish blood,’ Collins went on, eying him, the lunacy of his speech apparently serving only to engender trust in a group of men half mad from hunger and in search of answers however mad. ‘And if it be mermaids, the sirens have possessed him, they have tempted him with offerings from the sea, to lure us to them and have us consumed… those whales they will be poison, if we eat of them we will die!’

‘Christ,’ James murmured weakly, ‘Please this is…’ Crozier noted he had no weapon. No prop on which to pin his command and without the necessary experience he had not the clout to quell rebellion when his mind was thick with the fog of illness.  The situation slid downhill.

‘No!’ Collins was quite the sight now, shaking the curls of his unruly mane, his eyes wild, ‘No! Think on it sir! I have no beef wi’ you. But he has not been right since Carnivale.’

‘None of us have, Collins,’ James said wearily, trying reason as a guide, but reason had no power amongst these men now.

‘But there was a sea change in ‘im, sir you can’t deny. That illness and then these mad plans to move North. We wondered at the time, but a Captain is a Captain.  So we followed. But all that has befallen us is hardship sir, beyond e’en what we expected. Our food is rotten, our numbers have been culled, that Thing that attacked us is no earthly beast and now he speaks to spirits, sir, he sees something we do not. He is cursed!’

A shout.

‘He is cursed! And he must leave this camp!’

‘Cast him out!’

James took a step back towards Crozier, his hand outstretched before him protectively.

‘Calm yourselves, men please. This day has been long and hard, and it is natural to seek blame…’

Collins glowered past him with dead black eyes. Crozier felt them bore into his skin. Before him o’er half the men began to flank their crazed spokesman, most prominently Tozer, one of the few who remained armed after the Beast. He counted four armed men. None of them came to his defence.

‘James, it’s alright,’ Francis said calmly. ‘Hear them out.’ Fitzjames stared at him as though hit.

‘Francis for God’s sake.’

Every eye was on him now and he recognised their stare. Men once vital and alive, now cadaverous with hunger, lack of sleep, exposure and exhaustion. Their faces were pinched and hollow, made of shadows, gaunt cheeks and pitted bones. Skin torn and bleeding, lips crusted and black, they were things half rotted already. The slow creep of the scourge, and of worse, was upon them all. He had been too busy trying to keep them alive to truly see. But when men grew sick, truly sick, it was not just their bodies that wasted but their minds. A darkness, Blanky called it, a creeping paranoia, first against their command and then within themselves. So, it had started and it had grown and all balance of power had changed.

He glanced around. Where was Blanky now? His stalwart Northern wisdom might be just the thing to talk sense into these lads, but he realised with a low blow to his gut he could not see him. Christ, not him too. Not Thomas.  He felt himself sag.

What seamen and mates remained had banded together. To his right stood James and beside him he felt Jopson come into line. Goodsir hovered between the two groups with Irving and Little but he knew at that moment the numbers were against him and to ask his lieutenants to force the situation down would only end in more bloodshed.

The one thing he had sworn to end.

Desperate and frightened as they were, these were still his men and he would still protect them, but he realised now that their fear had lent them false knowledge and that they had seen beyond his promised Eden. That they must find their own way out for they would no longer follow blindly. He would not see them fight amongst themselves and he did not wish to be the thing that broke them. He would not waste his energy or theirs quashing a rebellion rooted in the irrational.

His naval urges kicked inside him. This was against all regulation, but regulation be damned. Abandon his position or wage a war amongst his own men, to crush the mutiny. For what? A sense of order? Because the navy would demand it? Why should they not fight for their own lives? They had no reason to believe he held the answer. He could not persuade them, or prove his worth on the basis of Visions by which they would condemn him, and he would not linger to be sacrificed to their madness.

They must follow their hearts and he must follow his.

There was a ship to the North and he would bring them to it. Or it to them.

‘Captain Fitzjames,’ he said clearly, ‘I hereby relinquish my command of the expedition.’

James’s eyes were horror itself. Crozier held up one hand.

‘Though I assure the men there is no truth in their accusations, I am also not so arrogant as to presume that I can continue to lead by status alone when there is no longer any faith. A lack of trust is as bad as any accusation of a curse; it is a curse itself. I do not wish for those who have survived thus far to spend their mettle in conflict with their brothers, but to use it wisely, in unity, for their escape from this place. I give o’er command, I relinquish my post as senior officer, for they must decide themselves where to go and how best to live.  Each man to his own, to follow his heart home, but in this way I hope he will remain with his mates in the face of all of it. If I am an impediment to their progress and their survival, if I have become the thing which would put my men asunder, then I must remove myself.’

‘Francis…. Please..’ James’ face was stricken, ‘This is…. This is against all… you will be ….’ He floundered, realising naval regulation had no authority in the wastes. Francis saw him search within for anything which might change his Captain’s mind and finding nothing watched him turn back desperately, his eyes wet with panic. ‘Francis…’ he said hoarsely, ‘I cannot do this without you.’

Crozier’s looked back across the faces of his old crew. They were of a very different mind.

 

 

He planned to leave at dawn, whenever that was, for the sun lingered in the sky at midnight and all the world was bright and harsh. The light offered no respite from the cold and stole away the comfort of darkness. Camp had been made with what supplies remained and now James sat upon his cot, too sick and pained to sleep just in a sack upon the ground. He could disguise the bed as an officer’s privilege, but each man knew the worth of it. Francis dressed his wounds a final time as James watched impassively, the trickle of rot on his breath with each shallow exhale.

They had done this a hundred times. A ritual before sleep wherein Francis tended his injuries and offered him comfort, long after their ability to do more for one another had left them. He packed the holes in James’ flank as Goodsir has shown him and wound linen around his torso, splaying his hands as he did so across the breadth of him. In London it had been the foolish fashion for ladies to train a corset so tight that their waists might be encircled by a lovers two hands. He thought that James would need no such device, there was so little of him left.

The fight with the Tuunbaq and James’ valiant efforts to end the thing had taken the last of his strength. It seemed that before his very eyes Francs cold see his lips darken and the deep bruises on his arms and chest were now scattered with peeling flesh and dappled stars of blood. His limbs were wasted, each bone pronounced, sharp white pressed into thin frail skin, the inner workings of a magnificent machine laid bare by encroaching death. He was a miracle and a tragedy; a spectre of shocking beauty who at once repelled and enticed. He paused, laid a warm hand upon James’ shoulder, his thumb nestling in the notch of his throat.

‘You are really leaving,’ James said. Francis nodded and slid his hand away, busied himself with the dressings once more.

‘I will move North as planned and find help,’ he said, ‘If I stay here there will be mutiny. We have lost enough.’

‘I should come with you,’ James said urgently.

Francis looked at him kindly. ‘You will do no such thing. You are needed here. The men still need a Captain.’

‘You ordered them to find their own way, make their own decisions, let me make my decision now.’

‘You are too ill, James, your decision has been made for you by circumstance.’

‘I still have my own mind, Francis! Whatever the men chose, I am entitled to…’

‘ _You_ will be their decision, James,’ Francis said, ‘Once I am out of the way. And they will be your responsibility.  Men crave leadership and they will seek it again, you mark my words. But they need to believe it was their choice in the matter.’

‘I do not wish them to choose me, Francis. I do not wish for this responsibility!’

It stung. How often Francis had thought the same thing, but it was his in the end without question, it still was, e’en when he left the camp, and long into the future, whatever the outcome. Crozier closed a hand over James’ thin wrist. ‘I ask only for some time. I will return, and when I do it will no longer matter who is in charge for we shall have rescue.’

‘Do you believe that Francis?’

James searched his eyes for an impossibly long moment. At first glance Francis could not place the change in him. Perhaps it was the illness, or the exhaustion. Perhaps it was the events of the day but the James that looked back at him now seemed lost and so much older than he remembered, not in body, but by some tell-tale sign within.

‘I do,’ Crozier reassured.

‘Take me with you,’ James tried again and Crozier knew logic was beyond him, fear spoke the words and fear alone.

‘James you are too unwell. I go without a tent, with few supplies. You would never manage.’

‘And how will you?’ he demanded, ‘With nothing to shield you, with no food? You are injured, you are supposed to rest!’

‘It is not far,’ Crozier lied, ‘I can make it there and back within a week, two at most. All I ask is that you stay here ‘til then. All will be well James I promise.’

‘You promised, each night you promised, you would not leave me here alone…’ James countered sharply, ‘Yet now you do. Amongst your enemies and by count, that amongst mine!’

Again the sting of truth. How often he had said the words, and meant every one, but now he must go. Francis brushed a dirty strand of hair from James’ bloodied forehead. ‘These are not my enemies, nor yours, James. They are our men, and they are frightened. They no longer know what they say or do, only that they do not wish to die…. Show them kindness, James.’

‘And who will show me kindness, in my last hours…? Christ, Francis! You promised!’

Crozier looked away but James clasped Francis hand with such force he was sure there would be bruises. His long fingers dug hard around his tendons, and like a hawk’s claws, they refused to yield their grip. When Francis looked up at his face he saw the streaks of tears through the dirt of the fire and fresh red blood around the rich brown of his irises. James was terrified, but he had seen him terrified before. Something was different now, something was new.

Francis peeled his hands from his own and cradled James’ face. He wiped clear the tears but they fell again. He would not stop, he shook and quaked beneath his touch as though his very soul would leave him, shudder out in pieces with each dry sob.

‘I will come back,’ Francis said soothingly through the turmoil in his breast, ‘Hmm?’ he kissed his hand and gently rubbed the taut and damaged skin.  ‘In the meantime you will eat and regain your strength, I did not slaughter that poor creature for naught, you will use it to grow well again. I will have Goodsir bring it to you later when the men sleep. You will not be judged for the eating of it or affected by my curse,’ he raised an eyebrow and tried to catch James’ eye to make him smile, but the man just shook his head.

‘James, James… you must eat. I will have need of you on my return.’

‘I have need of you _now_ ,’ James whispered refusing to be derailed, ‘Please Francis…do not leave me here to die.’

Crozier's heart faltered. If James could walk he would take him in a moment. He would take him as his support and muse, his comfort and his love, for selfish reasons just to spare himself from being alone. But James was sick and weak and spent, and he could not drag him North without risk to him. If he was to survive at all he must stay and rest and heal. Just like the others.

 ‘Shhh…. Where is that faith of yours, hmm?’ Francis said softly, his accent growing thick with the grate of anguish in his throat. ‘You will live and I will always come back to you, I will always come back. We will see each other again. Soon, James. Soon. All will be well. I promise… I promise.’

James bit back a sob, and the force of his swallow spasmed against Francis’ fingertips. Crozier leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to his scabbed and painful lips, drawing back at last and forcing him to hold his gaze. James watched him dully and Francis’ smile of reassurance wavered. He realised what had changed at last in his companion’s soft dark eyes.

The tiny flame of hope was gone.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis sets out alone and things look grim... for a while.  
> Well I mean they still look grim even at the end of this chapter but there may be a teeny bit of hope?!

He stopped on the swell to look down into the valley, a last lingering inspection of the camp he left behind. A few yards more and he would be out of sight and yet he had walked o’er a mile already. The going was slow and rough and the land around him stretched bleak and colourless to every angle, save the frozen sea which bobbed with each step to his left, the motion his alone, for when he paused it did too, its waves just an illusion created by his strides. Now it was still. If he vanished there would only be this peace and naught would ever alter, the wide expanse of nothing would creep back upon the shore and all related to his men would disappear.

James had hauled himself from his cot when the time came to see him off, and stood leaning upon a stick, a vision in tired uniform. He handed over supplies as Francis checked his pack and had bade Goodsir retrieve the Captain’s pistol from the beach on his excursion to harvest whale. Francis declined the meat, insisting the Doctor divide it between the men if they would possibly accept it and if not insisting James and Jopson and any others loyal to him would feed themselves in readiness for his return. 

He tucked the gun gratefully into his jacket while James wordlessly kept watch for mutineers. Most of the men were still asleep or hidden in tents, but Crozier knew many would not have deigned to watch his departure except perhaps to ensure its passing. Though his parting had been agreed there were more than one or two who would see it made permanent.

When all was prepared, and Goodsir had gone, there were long moments of emptiness between them, and more was spoken in glance and motion than by voice. He had tried again to reassure Fitzjames, to win him to this thinking, but the man would not engage, the fierce blink or his eyes betraying him as much as the tremble in his limbs.  So it was that when words ran dry and the tremble became a shiver, Francis laid a gloved hand upon James’ arm by way of farewell. The Commander’s eyes rested on the contact for a moment then slid slowly to his face. Francis wished that he could kiss him then, hold him tight against his body, but feared the force of love he felt might break him into two, and if not James, then himself.

He swallowed hard.

‘Travel well,’ James said.

Crozier turned and took the first steps from the camp.

‘Francis?’

He glanced back. James held out his walking stick.

‘You may need this.’

At the crest of the slope Crozier raised his telescope and swept the boundary of camp with its lens. From this distance, framed within the circled glass, the scene could be a landscape painted in tribute to fallen heroes, like so many of the works within the Admiralty walls. There was no movement, and no life. An hour had passed as he had trudged his way North and as yet nothing stirred. The breeze picked up but no sound carried, and all was still quiet and still.

Save the single figure watching him, tall and proud, his backdrop bleached, torn canvas, doused fires and broken, forgotten things. Crozier paused only long enough to remember James’ face as a portrait in the lens of the glass, then released him from his duty. He would stand there until both of them were lost from one another’s sight.

 

Francis came to be glad of the stick. Out of sight of the camp, the fatigue hit hard. The events of the day before, the long days prior to that. The march, the battle with the Beast, the realisation his men no longer trusted him, the departure from James. It had worn him ragged, but he could not think of it now, all he must do was walk and allow himself little respite save to calculate his position and prevent a veer off course.  There were longer miles ahead than this and they must be done quickly.

His head throbbed relentlessly and more than once he staggered when the sky swam around him, but he blamed the uneven rock beneath his feet and deemed the wet sensation at his neck to be sweat, though its stickiness and the scent of iron told him otherwise. Another mile in and the pain rang through each tooth and joint and wound its way down his spine. He remembered Goodsir’s words advising rest, and of the hidden perils of a bleed within. Well, there could be no turning back now, he had chosen this path and could not turn from it.

There was nowhere else to go.

It hit him that even if he did retrace his steps he would not be made welcome, but driven from the camp or worse. Crozier stopped and leaned heavily on the stick. He had never felt more of an orphan than he did now. The grey edge to his vision had returned and he reached for his snow googles, blue tinted and close fitting, blocking out the sun and disguising the variation in his sight. He ignored the fact there was no snow to speak of on the ground.

‘Bare rock can be as bright as snow,’ he reasoned out loud, then halted himself and glanced about self-consciously. After a beat he relaxed. ‘Well if madness will take me I may as well keep myself company.’ He retrieved a map from his pocket, shook it out before him, ‘Can it really be only two miles?’

Laying rocks at each corner to weight the thing Crozier pulled out his charts and equipment and set about positioning himself according to the sun. He discovered with dismay that half the morning seemed to have ticked by and little progress had been made. Two weeks at most he had told James.

‘Christ at this rate I will be two months,’ his vision darkened briefly, then it passed. He pressed his glove to the back of his head and drew it away, inspecting it quickly. The blood looked black through the tint of his glasses. He blanched, feeling oddly nauseous again though had never been one for squeamishness. Sweat prickled his brow, his legs felt suddenly weak.

Francis dropped forward onto his knees by the map, his fingertips in the rocks, intending to steady himself just for a second before the thing hit him without warning and his gut clenched hard. The morning’s meagre breakfast hit the gravel with a spatter and lay glistening darkly in the sun. He did not bother to remove the glasses, he knew the black streaks within the mess would be red, he had seen enough of it about camp and on marches. The scurvy had him.

He sat back and slowly the sweat dried on his forehead, the light breeze cooled his face. It was no great shock, the bruises on his body and aching teeth already told him he was ill. He imagined his journey before him now with a strange resigned detachment.

‘God, it is all come too late,’ he muttered and looked out at the sea imagining Ross’ ship as the Vision had shown him. ‘You might as well be five thousand miles, James, not fifty, if I cannot move faster than a snail’s pace in your direction.’

He poked about in his jacket for his flask, took a sip of tepid water warmed by his own body. It tasted metallic. It was probably the bleeding in his gums. All things now were tainted by the disintegration of his own humanity, naught he carried was fresh or clean, even the water felt dirty, like a part of him had leeched into it and died. Crozier began to pack up his equipment.

‘Yet I must try,’ he said, trying to convince himself, he slid the sextant and telescope into a pouch and secured it within his bag and a package caught his eye. Slowly he pulled it out and untied the string about it. A strip of blubber landed in his lap.

‘God dammit James, I told you not to pack that!’

The stuff glistened slimy in the sun. He noticed the deeper colour of meat below the line of fat. He had meant it for the men and for James. Despite Collins’ assertion it was poison he had hoped that hungry sailors would succumb to their need once they saw the whale, that Goodsir could persuade them, that talk of curses would vanish with his own disappearance. For himself he had packed biscuits and a few tins, in truth he hoped he would find game for he could not carry much.  Now here in his hands two pounds or more of meat meant for his crew.

The guilt was immense, but he had never in his life felt more ravenous, and it would only go to waste. He picked up the greasy sticky strip and tugged a chunk free between his molars. He did not trust the teeth at the front, when he pushed his tongue against them they felt weak in the sockets.  The blubber gave, and he chewed slowly, the sensation vile, the taste unbearable but the more he chewed the better it seemed to become and soon he could not get enough. His face grew slick with oil, it cloyed in the pits of his gums and coated his mouth. One strip consumed he forced himself to stop, sat looking at the pile in his lap.

‘Slowly, Francis, you know how this goes.’

He had watched starved men refeed before. A frenzy driven by instinct that resulted only in a mess of illness as their withered bodies rejected the rich source of new-found food. He had to pace himself or risk another episode of vomiting, of curious weakness and delirium as though his guts demanded all the strength he had just to digest a meal. His stomach growling Crozier parcelled up the rest and shoved it in his bag out of sight. He sat sucking grease off his fingers, gathering more from his chin and lips. When he glanced towards the sun he realised it was noon at least.

He walked on, moving down the coast lest he find more game.

What he found could not have been less like.

At twenty paces the dark object looked like driftwood, but no wood could e’er find its way to that place without a man’s presence.  E’en the wrecks of ships would not cast up a single scrap and hide the rest below the sea, and the sea was still frozen. With nothing else about, Crozier picked his way along the shore, moving deeper under the ridge of land and onto gravelled beach, until the thing came into focus through his blue glasses.

‘Oh Jesus Christ!’

For a mad second he wondered if the explosion from the boat had flung it two miles high and wide to clatter down amongst the shale. The image was too horrible, he clasped his hands behind his injured head and bit back tears. This far from camp and still the land threw up reminders of all he had left behind or lost. Was this whole lonely march to be one long exhibition of grisly memorabilia. He was tempted to turn his back and climb up the shore again but drawn by sickened familiarity he hobbled closer and bent to examine the object.

It certainly had been damaged, the carved wood innards splintered and the metal case pocked with gun pellet. The damn exploding boat and ammunition had peppered it thus high, God only knew where the rest of the man was, or in how many pieces.

‘For _fuck’s_ ….’ Crozier started.

‘Frank! Oi! _Francis_! Get o’er here you slime sucking varmint and cease yer prattling!’ Crozier whirled round. ‘And bring me bloody leg wi’ ye,’ Blanky finished, heaving himself up to sit beneath the ridge of the coast.

‘What in…. for Christ’s sake! Thomas!’ Crozier seized the leg and held it shoulder high.

‘I said bring it not fling it at me!’

Enraged and delighted in equal measure Crozier shambled over to where Blanky lay in the shade of the cove.

‘How in Hell are you even _here_ man?’ he bellowed at him, ‘I thought you were dead!’

Blanky squinted up at him through a layer of soot. ‘Ah… well that’s a tale…’

Crozier raised an eyebrow.

‘I ran,’ Thomas said.

‘You ran? That’s it? _That’s_ your tale?’ Crozier felt his mouth twitch. He wanted to kill him, possibly beat him about the head with his mangled iron foot, and then seize him in his arms and kiss the life out of him for surviving at all.

‘I did…’ Blanky nodded and to Francis’s wide-eyed amazement withdrew a pipe from his jacket.  ‘Not immediately… but well once I’d done all I could, and things looks bleak, Fitzjames had us scarper and…’ he looked briefly ashamed, ‘I have to say it seemed like a reasonable option at the time.’

Blanky filled the pipe with tobacco and looked up expectantly, eyes bright in all the muck of his face. His lips formed a suitably winning smile, one he knew damn well would vex his Captain into a veritable explosion. ‘Have you got a match?’ he asked.

Francis dropped to his knees in disbelief.

‘You bastard! You scurvy, _stinking,_ shrew-fucking, old bastard!’ He punctuated each descriptor with a shake, his grip tight upon Blanky’s shoulders and then pulled him in hard against him. He heard his friend chuckle and briefly a hand came to his back, a short but soothing action as it rubbed over his spine, then two short pats as he pushed free.

‘I’m gasping here, Frank, give me a damned match, I forgot to bring one when I were running for me life.’

Francis opened his bag and dug about, retrieved the little tin and chucked it at Blanky’s lap, hoping his aim was sound and hard. Thomas had the good grace to flinch.

 ‘Christ man,’ Crozier said as the smoke began to plume between them, ‘you’re miles out, you must have hobbled down that beach like a three legged rat with its arse on fire!’

‘Well that Beast weren’t getting my other limbs!’ Thomas handed him the pipe and Francis sucked on it slowly.

‘And nor shall it. It’s dead now. James killed it.’

‘James? _Fitzjames_ killed that thing?’

‘He did,’ Francis felt a flush of pride mixed with the sad knowledge James had half killed himself in the process and that really, Crozier ought to have finished the job himself. Christ how many times would James throw himself before him in a bid to protect him, and what in God’s name had he ever done to earn such love?

‘Well I never, are you sure you didn’t help?’ Blanky was saying, clearly deeply amused, ‘ _Fitzjames_ killed it you say? Didn’t think he had it in him the great Molly.’

‘He is a capable officer, Thomas,’ Francis snapped more irritably than he had meant to, ‘An honourable man. I would not have you doubt him or sully his name with such terms!’

Blanky looked at him curiously.

‘Yes. Yes, of course, Frank. I mean only, well he was always one for preening and fine stories, this courage seems to have come from nowhere…’ Francis glared at him. ‘But he put us all first that’s for sure,’ Blanky said quickly, ‘I mean the boat blew behind me but I were already half way to the pole itself by then. If I’d been closer…’ he lifted his battered leg and dumped it down again in emphasis.

‘You did right,’ Crozier said and passed back the pipe. ‘ _He_ did right to order you clear.’

‘I’d have come back but I got turned around, ‘Blanky confessed. Francis glanced at him. Ice Masters did not get lost and Blanky could navigate better than most without charts, but they did, he understood, get scared. He let it slide. In truth if he had been Blanky, and had not the weight of command upon him, he may not have returned either, not knowing to what he was returning, if any of his comrades lived, if the Beast waited still to finish him.

 ‘Must have flew into a panic,’ Blanky went on, doing a sterling job of convincing himself, ‘and off I went down the beach. Before I knew it I’d made it a mile out or more, and I… didn’t know where I was…. ‘

Francis nodded. He looked at the coast.  The coast that ran in a straight line north to south. He knew as well as Blanky did that it was all a white lie. He took back the pipe.

‘Anyway of course I worked it out eventually, and um… found my courage a little,’ Blanky said with a wry look, ‘So I started back… to help, or try to… But by then…’ here he looked at his detached leg as though it had personally shat in his tankard. ‘Stupid thing, it weren’t looking too bright at the start of it all but it cannot take my weight now.’

Clamping the pipe in his teeth, Crozier pulled the broken leg onto his lap. He peered into it, noted its strut was snapped and gave off a defeated sigh which plumed about him in a slow blue haze.

‘It’s seen better days,’ he admitted then ferreted in his coat for water and handed it to his friend automatically.

Blanky watched him sidelong as he drank. ‘How bad is it?’ he asked, his good humour dampened.

‘I have a stick, we may be able to fix it… or you could..’

‘Not the bloody leg.’

‘Oh.’

Blanky absorbed the silence for a moment.

‘How many? Left I mean?’

‘Less than thirty.’

A nod. Blanky retrieved the pipe from Francis’ mouth.

‘Boats?’ he asked around its stem.

‘Two gone.’

‘Right,’

‘Found some meat,’ Crozier said and passed it over. He was into it in seconds and Francis remembered he’d been out there for the best part of a day alone. Thomas made an appreciative noise and ripped a segment of blubber off with his teeth, chewing noisily.

‘Things are looking up!’ he declared to Croziers incredulous face, ‘I’ll get it down me and we’ll head out,  what d’ye say? Let me just test this fucking thing first,’ Blanky helped himself to the walking stick and began scrabbling to gain purchase on his one good leg. ‘Help a man out, Frank.’

‘I’m heading North,’ Francis said.

‘We all are, or will be if I e’er get myself upright, gies yer hand.’

‘No, Thomas, I’m heading North. Alone.’

Blanky sat down again with a thud and a trail of grease trickling from one corner of his bearded mouth. He swiped at it with his sleeve.

‘Alone.’

‘Alone,’ Francis confirmed, ‘As the men so wish it.’

Blankly watched him closely with the quick understanding of a friendship decades long. Crozier found he could not look at him for fear of the kindness he would find there. For all his bluster and coarse language Blanky had the ability to read a man as clearly as he e’er did the ice, and Francis better than most.

‘Times for a change was it,’ Thomas asked quietly.

‘Something like that.’

They sat in silence, but for the slow chew of blubber in Blanky’s jaws. Crozier had run dry of words, of explanations, of reasons why. He had used them all with James the day before, used more e’en with himself. All that was left now was to do. To walk. To find rescue.

‘You know,’ Thomas said at last, helping himself to another swig of water and another fist of whale, ‘When you said North at the start of this there were plenty doubted the sense of it.’ Francis sighed, wary of where the man was going.  ‘But I was ne’er one of them. I’ve known you too long and too well for that.’

Crozier stared out at the frozen sea. ‘I’m not infallible, Thomas.’

‘No, but there is something about you, whe’er it be talent, knowledge, plain old common good sense…. Or something other.’ Again that sidelong glance.

‘How long have you known?’ There seemed no value to pretending now.

‘Oh, a while,’ Thomas mused. ‘I’ve shared a sack with you a dozen times, Frank, I’ve watched you sleep and I’ve seen you dream. E’en when you were awake, sometimes,’ the words hung in the air.

‘You know,’ he said after a minute, ‘I suspected on our first voyage and after that I heard the stories… but you know how sailors are, the mystical draws them, they make legends out of ordinary happenings. But there were always more to it than that wi’ you. You’re an uncanny dog, Frank, that you are, and it’s saved my life at least once, whate’er your gift is. Perhaps it will again?’

Crozier smiled but it faded quickly. ‘The crew know now. They saw it.’ Thomas rubbed his back, just once, with a  greasy paw.

 ’Ah… that’s not good,’ he said, ‘But for now it can’t be helped. I don’t care where it comes from I’m as superstitious as the next man on a ship, but I’m not one for shouting blasphemy and witchcraft and burning at the stake. There’s plenty in this world we do not grasp and by which we are afflicted, and I’ll not see you hurt for this. Here… or if we make it home. You will always have me, Frank, don’t you worry.’

Francis nodded his thanks. He thought of how once, long ago on _Erebus_ , James had promised the same thing. He prayed both men would make it back to England; he cared little now if either betrayed him, only that they lived.

‘North then?’ Thomas asked at last.

‘North.’

‘A ship?’

‘Sir James Ross. He has dogs, we need not make it all the way to the coast.’

‘How far’s ahead then?’

‘Forty miles or more,’ Crozier flipped a pebble back and forth in the palm of one hand.

Blanky considered. ‘That’s a long march for two men with three pins between them. You’d best get on and fix my leg, unless you want to carry me upon your back. _Captain.’_

Crozier turned to him and raised his eyebrows, ‘I will do no such thing you brazen loon! Fix your own damn leg!’ He grabbed the splintered thing and smacked it into his friend’s chest where Thomas clutched it to him, shoving at Francis’ shoulder with his free hand in unrestrained mirth.

‘You dog!’ Crozier chuckled. 'What will I lean upon now once my stick has been put to your benefit?'

Blanky’s answer was a gruff and broken cackle, and it sounded like music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A 'Molly' is an 18thC word for an effeminate man or sodomite.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a short delay here we are back again inflicting Misery on Francis. What's that I spy coming over the horizon?

‘You should leave me here, Frank.’

Crozier ignored him save to tighten his grip around his waist. Blanky lurched a few more paces across the uneven shale.

‘I’m serious.’

‘Be quiet.’

‘I’m holding you back.’ His stick clunked then slithered from him a few inches over the surface rock and snow, causing him to stagger and Francis automatically leaned to right him again. The pair paused.

 ‘See,’ Blanky said in frustration ‘I’m a fucking liability.’ Crozier slid his arm free of his friend and leaned upon his thighs, his head swimming and breath coming in laboured bursts. Blanky shuffled beside him getting purchase on his shorn up prothesis and battered walking aid. He could feel the man’s eyes on the back of his head, appraising.

‘How are ye faring?’ Thomas asked.

‘Just give me a moment.’

‘Sit down if you want,’ he offered. Francis winced, the grey edges of his vision pulsing, his head a carnival of sharp and throbbing pain, mixing in turbulent waves. He swallowed down, refusing to let his lunch be lost, they had little left of their supplies. ‘Come on now Frank, you’re worse than me this minute, tak’ a rest.’

‘We need not stop on my behalf,’ he managed.

‘No, but ye stop often enough for me.’

‘You are missing a leg!’

‘And you’ve got a bloody great hole in yer head!’

Crozier dug his fingers into the muscles above his knee, watched the skin whiten beneath the dirt. Beside him Blanky sat purposefully with a disordered clatter, kicked his good leg out before him and rooted in his jacket for Francis’ flask. ‘Sit down!’ he ordered.

Reluctantly he lowered himself to the ground, keeping his eyes on his lap. If he looked up the sky would whirl around him and the nausea would worsen.

‘Leave me here,’ Blanky repeated, ‘I know you and you won’t stop for nothing, but you’d mak’ on better without having t’ lug me alongside.’

‘Nobody is being left anywhere, Tom,’ he shut his eyes, rubbed at his brow.

‘We’re less than half way, and it’s been days,’ Blanky reasoned, ‘We ain’t got no more supplies, not seen so much as a bird close enough for shooting, not that I think you could tak’ much aim right now e’en wi’ yer prize pistol.’

‘I can see well enough.’

‘Can ye now,’ Blanky grumbled. ‘What a pair we are, one wi’ not the proper count o’ limbs and one half blind wi’ pain.’

Crozier chuckled, then stopped abruptly and held his head. He groaned. Blanky’s arm came around his shoulders.

‘Take a nap, Frank.’

‘It’s the middle of the bloody day!’

‘No one’s watching,’ Tom winked at him, ‘Here pass us yer pistol and if a bear looks like it might run and tell the admiralty ye were sleeping on duty I’ll blow it’s head off.’

Francis sighed and tentatively raised his sight to the horizon. It looked curiously far and yet so near, like all perspective had altered. The pain in his skull twisted, the scant clouds above them turning darker.

‘You alright? Yer colours peaky. If yer going to puke try not to do it my direction this time.’ Blanky began packing snow into the water flask to melt.

The world shimmered.

_The camp was half deserted, no men sat by the fire, and the embers were cool. The wind rattled in the canvas and at least one tent had collapsed to the elements. There were tins by its edge, unopened, discarded.  Crozier paused and cast about for any sign of life. At last he heard a faint moan. He moved to the sickbay._

_There were a half dozen within and tending them was Goodsir, bent over a cot, his frame frail, his sleeves rolled to the elbows. There were bruises on his skin. As Crozier approached he caught the side of the man’s face, his full beard a bird’s nest now and his eyes hollow and tired. His scalp was bleeding. For a moment his gaze seemed vacant, lost in absent memory, then shaking himself he wrung a rag out in cold water and returned to his task, bathing the face of the man before him, prone upon the bed._

_Francis did not need to look to know his name. He heard his voice instead._

_‘Is he here, Harry?’ it whispered, ‘He promised he’d come back.’_

The scene faded, Francis looked back to the horizon. Beside him Blanky had paused his chore and was looking at him curiously.

‘Another Vision?’ he asked. ‘You’ve been getting a lot of those, seems to take more out of you each time. Are you sure you won’t…’

‘We need to make on,’ Francis said, heaving himself up and extending a hand to Thomas. ‘We need to move.’

 

When he first saw them, he was sure it was a mirage. He had walked the ice long enough to know the tricks it played upon a desperate man’s vision. One might see ships, or figures such as these, and yet on moving closer they would vanish, taunting, teasing, consuming the last of one’s morale. With his eyesight as it was, dark flecks upon the horizon plagued him with regularity, so to begin with he put it down to pain and dropped his gaze to the shale, plodding on, plodding on.

He heard wolves howl in the distance. Blanky did not seem to notice and he chose not to mention it. If they were to be prey once more he would rather the man did not spend his last hours in fear. He could not run, and in truth neither could Francis. Thought he had always dug deep enough before to find reserves he was certain he had run dry now. He thought of James and of Jopson and Goodsir. He forced his feet onward.

When he looked again to the North the spots were still there, larger and more numerous. He heard no wolves now.  The shapes lingered silently at the same point of the horizon. Perhaps they stalked them, perhaps they scented them on the air. Perhaps he marched them on to waiting death. He brought Blanky to a safe halt and rummaged in his pack.

‘What’s got you Frank?’ Thomas panted. They had made around five more miles and the toll was showing. Around the joint of his missing knee there were bloodstains beneath the soot of his slops. If they were wolves, they would smell it. The men had become their quarry. Francis found the telescope and tugged it long.

‘Probably nothing,’ he said flatly, ‘Just my eyes again,’ Blanky waited, unconvinced but glad of the break nonetheless. Francis brought the eyepiece to his googles.

The black spots on the horizon changed shape. They were elongated now, still far off, still relatively formless in their detail, but they did not float at random before his eyes, they moved in a steady orderly fashion. He counted five and in their midst an odd shape much lower to the ground.

He quickly flicked the googles off and looked again.

Without the blue tint of the glass the things became more defined. He fancied he saw the shapes of heads and limbs. The afternoon light on the bodies revealed the colour of them to him, they were not black, but much lighter, only just darker than the ground, save for the low shape between, which was paler still. He watched on, dimly aware of Thomas growing impatient beside him and battling with the dark curtain o’er his sight. They did not seem like animals, he had seen wolf packs before. Those beasts moved in lines, stretched out across the land. These shapes were bunched together and although the distance made it hard to tell, he thought perhaps they walked upon two legs.

‘What is it? Esquimaux?’ Blanky was squinting, his keen Ice Master’s eyes clearly able to pick up on some details at a distance when Crozier’s own sight was failing.

‘I’m not certain.’

‘What’s that thing between? Is that a sled?’

He focused and saw that it was. Crozier’s heart leapt. They had seen no Esquimaux for weeks, the game had not come, and without it the hunters stayed away.  Still, if they were natives, he could muster some of their language they might have meat to spare or trade.

Clearly Blanky was wondering the same thing, ‘What’s the word for food again, my head feels like a sieve, can’t remember a bloody thing.’

But Francis’ attention was elsewhere. He trained the telescope above the sled,  and to above it where a square shape fluttered in the wind. He blinked hard, tried to clear the grey, saw a flash of red… and blue.

‘They have a flag!’ he exclaimed.

‘What!?’

Crozier dragged his gaze away to look at Thomas, gave a tentative smile and was rewarded when Blanky’s face cracked into the broadest grin he had seen since leaving Greenhithe. ‘It’s him isn’t it, Frank, it’s fucking…’

There was no time for celebration yet.

‘God’s blood, Thomas! They are here! They are really here!’

He thrust the telescope at Thomas and dragged the gun from his slops.

When the pistol fired high into the air it let out a crack so loud half the arctic would have heard it. A blaze of sparks fell from the discharge like fireworks and then Crozier waited, the barrel still raised, while Thomas wielded telescope and looked yonder. Francis held his breath. Please, God, _please,_ God. There was an agonising pause of seconds, then a minute. He ferreted in his pocket for another round.

But it was ne’er loaded before the boom of a musket replied. Francis head snapped up.

‘Jesus Christ! Jesus fucking Christ! Thomas! It _is_ them! It is Ross!’

‘Ha _, ha_!’

Blanky grabbed him them hard and long, his laughter gruff, before pulling back to stare at him in awe through a mess of grime and scabbed chaffed skin.

‘You bloody did it, Frank, you bloody did it!’ and he kissed him hard and whiskery full on the lips. ‘I knew you had it in you! I _knew_!’

‘Jesus, Tom!’

‘I fucking love you, Frank, I’d fucking marry you tomorrow!’

Crozier laughed a weak and breathless thing, wiping the back of his glove across the slobber on his lips. ‘Well come on man, come on! If e’er you needed to stagger your arse forward it is now, move… move!’

Wrapping their arms around one another they lurched onwards, there was a distance still to cross but they could see the sled gaining speed before their eyes. The figures alongside were aboard now and as they closed in Francis could see there was not one sled but two, racing over the snow-covered rock in their direction. With what haste they moved, and though he knew he should keep pace and hurry to meet them he felt the strength go from him slowly, sapping quickly the more vivid they became. His head spun. His sight flickered. He could hear the dogs now, yowling, yapping, and beneath that the tones of a man, a naval commander in the baritone of his orders, barked out against the silence of the world around them. A voice that still held strength, fresh and powerful.

He could have wept. He could have laughed. Francis was suddenly filled with such a jumble of incongruent energies that he knew not what to do. He felt as though he ought to run, straight into the path of the sled and the men, but he could not get his limbs to carry him. He shook and he could barely get his breath, and yet he breathed too hard, too fast and each nerve end tingled in his fingers.

The indistinct and shouted orders continued and then -

‘Avast! Avast men!’ the figures hollered.

The words were coming clear, and the sleds were almost upon them. He could see the eyes of the men above their mufflers and e’en as the sleds moved they were springing from each side and running. Beside him Blanky was crying openly with joy, braced on his good leg, waving his damn stick in the air like a flag, half tipping himself to the ground with the force of his passion. He shouted back, a string of rich expletives and profanities punctuated with an unhinged cackle.

Francis touched his shoulder and stepped forward. Somewhere far away his empty ships lay frozen, their knighted commander deep beneath the ice. Along the route of his march a hundred bodies lay burned and decaying, their souls lost to the land. South of them the last of his friends lay dying with forsaken hope. He had marched nigh on six hundred miles for this moment and he felt it in his bones that finally his burden might be shared, that finally there was hope in its truest purest form, but until he laid hands upon his friend and saviour, he was Captain and leader still. He must end this alone.

The few sounds of the party grew louder in a rush. The distance closed. All at once the silent world of Crozier’s lonely journey shattered and civilisation burst forth in a blast of colour and sound. The Union Jack flew high, the dogs whined, men shouted.

The sleds surged suddenly to a halt, and gravel flew. The mess of yapping huskies pranced within their harness, blue eyed and vibrantly alive against the wasted ground. A few figures trotted forward, their footsteps heavy on the shale, their breathing ragged. They panted like horses from their exertion, the engines of their lungs forcing plumes of hot breath into the air. Vital, robust. They were swaddled in their slops, hallooing and raising their hands in greeting, their faces at once alien and so very, very welcome.

But it was the man at the reins of the lead sled who arrested Crozier’s eyes.  He jumped from it, his hands lifting to peel the muffler from his face, to take off his cap.

A wide and dimpled grin followed.

‘Francis Crozier,’ James Ross said loudly, his voice defying the elements around him and warning the cold and barren land that it should meddle no further with the life of his friend, ‘My God, man, what a merry dance you have led us!’ He took three strides and enveloped him in his arms.

Crozier clung to him. How strong he seemed. E’en beneath the layers of uniform he could feel how taut and full his muscles were. He was a creature from another world, well fed, well rested, to whom this land held no fear. His ship lay north, the sled was laden, and he would take them home. He would take them all home. Francis inhaled. The scent of canvas and of clean warm skin beneath his nose, the hints of his damn fancy cologne. He laughed and squeezed shut his eyes. He wanted James to take it all, his command, his men, every responsibility that had been thrust upon him since Sir John’s death. Take it and let him rest now, just let him rest.

‘My dear friend,’ Ross said, ‘My brother. Oh, how we feared for you… my dear, dear Francis.’

The words were his undoing and suddenly everything ached. His back, his head, the sinews of each limb, so much worse than it had e’er done before. He felt his knees weaken and Ross held him tight and upright against his chest. What a sight he must be. His battered frame frail in the arms of his vital friend, his tears running unhindered down his roughed peeling cheeks. He was weak and shameful, bruised and bleeding.  The weight had fallen from his body until his slops were belted in to nothing at his waist, and he could feel each miserable muscle tremble as Ross held him firm. He was so tired, so very tired and at last he broke, his breath hitching helplessly.

Crozier sobbed against Ross’s shoulder, muttering apology and snuffling like a child until a kind and mittened hand came up to sooth his back without judgement.

‘It’s alright now, Francis, it’s alright,’ Ross whispered. He hefted him against him, his arm under his shoulders before turning and to his men, ‘You, Parkes, see to his comrade… ‘

‘Blanky, sir!’ Thomas called happily.

Ross peered over Francis’ shoulder clearly amused, ‘Good heavens, Blanky? I’d ne’er have recognised you! What a marvellous beard you have now!’ Thomas laughed appreciatively with more than a hint of mania about the sound.

‘See to Mr Blanky, have Dr Hornby check that leg,’ Ross looked back at Francis, who was trying discreetly to pull away and wipe his face, ‘Come,’ he said quietly, ‘Sit, eat something.’

‘My men,’ Francis said hoarsely, ‘They are thirty miles from here to the south, encamped. We have no supplies, James, and they are sick, we must…’

‘And we shall, we _shall_ ,’ James said, ‘But take a few minutes Francis, ‘tell me what has happened. If your men are camped South we will need to send forward scouts, then rally the rest of my crew for there will be too many for us alone to aid.’

He looked at Francis with such unabashed practicality and fortitude. Clear skin, clear eyes, soft clean hair. He was all hope and kindness, a plan at the ready for the rescue. Francis realised dully that the sleds had been but a search party, that a whole crew lay North at the ready, and provisions enough to rescue o’er a hundred men lost in the wilds. Though he would have anticipated loss, it would not have occurred to Ross that there would be so few, that Francis could have failed them all so utterly.

Crozier bit his lip, ‘There were scarce thirty men when I left, James and that was almost a week past.’

He watched Ross’s warm blue eyes react with disbelief. ‘ _Thirty_ Francis? Truly?’

He tried to swallow away the tightness in his throat and managed a small nod.

‘There has ne’er been loss like this in all…’ Ross stopped tactfully. He did not need to tell Crozier it was the worst death toll in peace time naval history, he had done those calculations long ago, before they e’en abandoned ship. The guilt crept over him in a wave, the pain of it clear in his features as his friend watched him with compassion.

‘Francis,’ James began again softly, ‘in God’s name, I know you well enough, I know your abilities and would trust you with my all… for this to happen… what Hell have you been through?  What turn of events could lead to such an end? Christ, man!’  

Crozier looked back at him ashamed and defeated, only to note the wetness in James’ eyes. There was no blame there only sorrow, for all he has seen, for all he had been forced to endure and he hated himself more, to stir such pity, for he deserved none. Though events had cursed them, he had still been at the helm, and every loss was on his conscience. He wanted to vanish, to disappear as Lady Silence had warned would be his Fate. His job was done. He had found Ross at last and his men could follow on to camp to save his crew, but he, Francis Crozier was owed no rescue, he ought to waste and perish on those rocks, lie bleaching his bones with the rest of his dead men. What right had he to return home when he had failed them so? Oh, he wanted to live, he ached to leave this place, to have a full belly and a warm bed, but how? Those things were not owed to him, but to them, the ones he left behind.

He covered his face with one soiled hand.

‘This is my fault,’ he said. Snot pooled upon his lip, his jaw trembled, his body, his mind, his very soul sickened and revolted him. ‘Please do not be kind to me. Please do not be kind…’

Ross removed his gloves, cupped Crozier’s wet and sticky face in both his bare hands. ‘You know that I must, Francis. For I will not believe the man I served with so long did not give his all for his men. Tell me and I will judge for myself, but be sure that e’en when I have the tale, I will be certain of your courage,’ he kissed his forehead tenderly in absolution, then rubbed his fingers through Francis’ greasy hair.

 ‘Come, brother, let us tend to you, and then I promise, we will go to them directly. We will save your men.’


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross's rescue party reaches Terror Camp and Francis discovers James's Fate.

The return march took three days, less than half of Francis’ laboured outbound journey. Ross had dispatched one of his sleds to return to his own camp further North and hail McClintock, and asked that Blanky go with them; purportedly the man would be needed to provide clear direction back. Once he was gone, Crozier correctly deduced the true reason was to ensure he received the attention he needed to his leg, and for that he was relieved. Thomas was a stubborn goat, and he would have hobbled the thirty miles back to Fitzjames and the others without complaint; he may even have deigned to be hauled upon the sledge, but the bloodied stump revealed beneath his slops would only fester by delay and Dr Hornby as having none of it.  To _Enterprise_ Camp he went.

Francis was nearly sent on himself. Once he had calculated the course to _Terror_ Camp, and given details of the men there and a deliberately rough outline of events since leaving the ships, Ross had begged him to go, to take rest, to eat well, to let the damn gash on his head heal properly, but of course Francis would not hear his reason. They made camp for a few hours overnight, whereupon he was fed lemon juice and fresh caribou meat until he felt his guts may burst. The surgeon packed his wound and wound linen around his skull, checked his vision best he could with his limited equipment. He, like Goodsir, was concerned for a bleed though Francis argued it was only the scurvy. Ross and his doctor exchanged glances, but Crozier was keen to get moving, he i _nsisted_ on it.

Insist he might, but his legs would barely carry him beyond his tent to relieve himself. Ross found him leaning against the pole at the back, his vision swimming, trying to summon the courage to walk back the few paces to his bed and e’en then he said, he would only lay an hour or two at most. James, knowing him well, acquiesced and agreed that he would not hinder him, but upon reaching the sleeping sack, Francis all but collapsed with fatigue. He relented and slept, tucked up in clean furs with Ross by his side.

When he woke, he ached, and James had to help him to stand.  He swayed before his friend, the grey blur of his vision still ever present, and clutched onto his arms to steady himself.  Ross raised his eyebrows in sympathetic remonstrance. Captain Crozier would be walking nowhere that day, and if he did not do as he was ordered he would be sent to _Enterprise_.

He did not argue then, he would not delay them further, but took his place upon the sled, his back to where Ross stood driving the dogs, leaning against a pile of supplies. There he lay for the duration, completely banned from doing more by both his friend and the Doctor. The first day passed as a dream, taken up with fitful sleep and meals, and the second was much the same, but marginally more wakeful. He cursed himself for dozing and for contributing nothing, but Ross calmed his fears, they were making good progress.

For an impotent third day Crozier looked about at the boxes and tins, neatly soldered and not from Goldners. During their first evening meal James had told him of the volumes of the foodstuffs jettisoned on other ships shortly after Terrors departure from England. He had been worried e’en then, he said, for the supplies sent to the arctic with his friend. He had not however imagined that it would be so bad. To find some food spoiled was one thing, to have it poisoned with lead seemed a double cruelty beyond measure. These supplies were handpicked, he said, as fresh as tins could come, Ross had spared no expense, and it showed in the taste. His stomach growling and not wishing to bother the other men, Francis picked a tin of apricots from the store and opened it with a knife as he rode. He felt ashamed, but he could not seem to stop eating.

When he slept he was comforted, but at times on the journey he felt as though he was as much of a burden as the tins, only considerably less useful. He felt embarrassed that he could not march with the men, although how in God’s name they managed to run alongside when the dogs hit speed he had no idea. Clearly Ross had brought with him the most herculean of all naval recruits. They thought nothing of the distance or steady pace, jogging in full slops, their weapons slung over their arms, stopping to refuel with copious portions of biscuits and meat every few hours. 

Somewhat surreptitiously Francis sucked sugar syrup from his fingers and replaced his gloves. He thought of Fitzjames in his boat weeks before, his Roman Emperor, and the irony was not lost upon him. Here Crozier lay, warm and replete, surrounded by such delicacies as his men had not seen in years. A pang of self-loathing hit him. How dare he lay there eating his fill? And eating of the very supplies he took now to his men, God’s blood he could not be more selfish, he’d eaten more since Ross had found him than his James had probably had in a month.

James Fitzjames. He had not seen him in nigh on a fortnight, save for his Visions, and with each passing scene the situation at Terror seemed to worsen. He had been too dazed and ill to register his panic but now it seemed to hit him with full force. What were they returning to? Would any men still live? He felt sure in his heart James was alive but in what state? Was all this too late to aid him, would he have clung on stubbornly to life only to fail in Crozier’s arms. Pictures and prophesies swam before him, portents of doom. He had promised him, he had promised and while James had laid suffering he had spent three days languishing in furs, half asleep, barely thinking of him o’er the pronouncements of his own belly.  Without warning he let out an anguished moan.

Above the noise of sled and dogs Ross looked around.

‘Are you ill Francis? Do you wish us to stop a moment?’

‘No... no… I just…’

Ross peered down at him over his muffler. He flicked the reins nonchalantly without e’en watching his course. ‘Ah! You’re into the apricots I see! Are you hungry? It is almost luncheon.’

Crozier rolled his eyes, a touch mortified at being caught stuffing his face yet again and unable to share the real reason for his melancholy. And now he was being offered lunch! He found it incredible that Ross still managed to keep such a schedule while hurtling round the wastes on his dog drawn sled, and besides, Francis was beginning to think he should go easy with his portions, or there’d be nothing left for anyone.

‘I’m sorry James, I’m like a thing possessed at the moment, I can’t get enough of it, it’s all I can think of and yet there is so much more I should be attending to. I am the worst kind of Captain.’

A hearty laugh from his friend. ‘Heavens, Francis, it’s only natural! That’s what it’s there for. We brought it for _you_. There’s plenty of it and McClintock will bring more. The ship is absolutely heaving with meats and cheeses, preserves, fruit cake, biscuits. You will not even want the damn tins when you get back there. Tuck in, tuck in!’ He flicked the reins again and the dogs yelped with excitement. ‘Is any of this looking familiar, by the way? Our charts say we must be nearing it, should we stop and investigate, get you off that sled a moment?’

Francis found he was thinking about cheese. God damn himself. ‘Hmm… what… Already? I mean, so fast?’

‘Dogs, Francis, they are the way forward, but don’t tell Frank that, he’s still so attached to his men in harness, I’m beginning to think he just likes the aesthetic of it!’

Despite himself Francis smiled, McClintock was an odd man, dreadfully accomplished but so keen to uphold appearances at times he failed to see the nose upon his face.  And for him appearances were all about a group of sweating men doing the honourable thing. To replace them with beasts would be absurd.

Well what Francis would have done for James’s beasts these last months. The dogs were clearly quick and able, required little by means of food, and in their use preserved precious men’s energies.  While Ross’s team ran or walked alongside they were at least spared the torment of hauling a boat of a thousand pounds or more across uneven rock. Men stopped and started, grunted and moaned, pulled muscles and injured their backs. Dogs just seemed to glide with pleasure at their work. They also, he had discovered of late, made warm and amiable bedfellows. He thought suddenly of Neptune, long gone and missed. Christ, he’d even let down his faithful dog, who asked so little from him and yet he had failed to protect him from the Beast.

The sled slowed to a stop and Francis looked up from his daydream, a torment of guilt and half seen visions of the future, mixed with the shameful anticipation of yet more variety of foodstuffs. He chastised himself and forced himself to focus. After a couple of days on the sled his muscles had ceased to ache, the nag at his joints was less and by God he might even be able to see more clearly. He could at the very least take a look at the charts and the surroundings as Ross asked and stop hiding from his responsibilities.

James hopped down and began unpacking Francis from his furs. Crozier waved aside his hands. ‘God’s sake, man, I can manage!’

He stood, his thighs shaky from hours of bumping on the sled, and looked about him as he adjusted. James passed him a telescope and he perused the coast while a map was unpacked and consulted at his side. In the lens he could just make out the edge of the cove where he had killed the whale and spun to his left a little.

‘Behind that crest,’ he said, ‘We will find them there, perhaps three miles hence.’ Ross nodded, made a mark on his sheet.

‘Very well, it’s not far, let’s push on.’

‘I can walk,’ Crozier suggested.

James eyed him carefully and for the first time in days his jovial demeanour let slip the truth of his suspicions, there was a sadness there, a sorrowful anticipation. ‘No, Francis,’ he said kindly, ‘you may need your strength.’

 

 

The dogs drew them straight to the edge of camp, and Francis was off the sled before they had e’en stopped. He had not bothered to replace his furs and instead had joined Ross at the reins as they drew closer, a bag over his shoulder of supplies. His burning anxiety had grown with each mile as reality came near. Though three days had passed he felt sure now that each moment counted. If James lay sick under canvas, he would be the first he would attend to. Ross and his men could see to the rest, he would relinquish all responsibility to his rescuer, let slide the mantle of command, if only it meant that his James was alive.

There was heaviness within him, and a fluttering in his chest. His eyes had already mapped the land for signs of his men, but he had seen none. As the huskies settled he passed by the first collapsed tent quickly, and moved straight to sick bay as the Vision had shown him. Ross called out behind him, and the sounds of men crunching over gravel reached his ears, but dimly, for there was but one focus for him now.

He parted the tent flap.

Goodsir was on the ground, his head against the bars of an empty cot. He wore but his shirt and open waistcoat above his blue officer’s trousers. His bare arms were scattered with dark bruises, his eyes were shut. Crozier glanced about him, five men in cots lay still and he could see from where he stood that at least one was dead, his fingers twisted in rigor, his blackened mouth a snarl. He could not see James. He looked back at the Doctor, dropping to his knees and grasping his shoulder.

Goodsir’s eyes shot open, his lashes crusted with blood.

‘Captain?’ he breathed, as rank a breath as Francis had ever scented.

‘We are saved,’ he said quickly, ‘There is rescue, and supplies, they bring medicine…’ Goodsir’s split and painful mouth twitched and then he cast a look o’er his shoulder at the empty bed.

‘We lost six more,’ he whispered.

 ‘Where is James?’ Crozier said urgently, ‘Where is _Jame_ s, Harry?’

The words seemed slow to come. Goodsir blinked in confusion, his eyes tracking past Francis then lolling back to his face in a hazy sweep. ‘Command… tent…’ he croaked. ‘Are we really saved…?’

‘Yes, by God, yes… just hang on,’ he was up and out of the tent, waving down one of Ross’s men to attend to the sick, before crossing the camp at a run towards his own old command tent. The outer flap that once was held suspended o’erhead as a shelter had fallen shut, its ropes broken in a wind. An empty lantern lay outside, and the remains of a fire pit long burned out and there, next to it, the stripped carcass of the whale, bones white in the sun, the finest threads of sinew still attached.

Crozier dived inside.

James Fitzjames lay within his old sleeping sack, his pale profile sharp against the canvas wall, his hands folded upon his chest, and he was peaceful, so peaceful. The light within the tent was dull, but the scars and bruises were still clear to see against the queer luminosity of his too white skin, against the hollow sculpture of his face. He was a fallen king rendered in marble.

Francis felt panic grip his throat.

‘Jesus, no, James!’ He fell to the sack on his knees, the sharp rock beneath the thin canvas jarring him. ‘Jesus Christ, James, no, no…’ bile surged to his mouth and he covered his lips and shut his eyes. It was all for naught. A few of his men might straggle home but James was lost, he was lost, and no power on God’s earth could undo it. Crozier had returned too late, he should ne’er have left, he had abandoned James to the worst kind of loneliness, the most unforgivable solitude, he had broken every bond and every vow and deserted him in his hour of need.  He felt a scream within, rising up and rising fast, and all strength leeched from his body, the wave of grief about to hit and wash away the last of his resolve.

‘Francis….’

The hand slid to his knee and Crozier started.

‘James! _James_!’

His dry lips cracked as he smiled, his voice was as rough as if he had not drunk in days and though the blood still stained his eyes, the pupils shone brightly in what dim light there was.

‘You… made it,’ he said with a glimmer of his crooked teeth. ‘You came back.’

Francis surged forward, his arms around James’ chest and heaved him to him, clinging for all his meagre might to the slender frame he so cherished. Weakly James’ arms wrapped around him, his head lay on his shoulder and Francis cradled it there with his hand, pressing kisses to his dirty hair, his temple, to each inch of broken skin that revealed itself.

‘I thought you were lost,’ Crozier stammered, ‘I thought I was too late. I saw... I saw… God it matters not, you are here and alive. And we have rescue, we have _rescue_ , James.’

The joy coursed through him like a slug of the strongest spirits, his heart hammered, and his soul just soared. James was alive and breathing in his arms, the precious, courageous man who had given him so much. Nothing mattered now, nothing but that fragile body clasped against his own and the loving heart within that had taught him all. Not ice, not Beasts, not the betrayal of men, not starvation or hardship. The trials flew away. All would be well, all would now be well. He kissed him again, and again, his flesh quivering with the force of his emotion.

James coughed weakly against him. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ Francis whispered, ‘I must not hurt you… here… lay back. I will fetch help, there is a doctor.’

‘There are other men who need him,’ James managed slowly as he settled back, ‘Those who would not eat. They are with Goodsir… Tozer, Collins… I gave up my cot for them…’

The mutineers and the superstitious. Fitzjames had foregone comfort for their treatment.

‘They will be tended to,’ Francis said, ‘but God, man, I must get you seen,’ he made to stand but James pale fingers clung to his arm.

‘Give me a moment,’ he pleaded more with his eyes than his voice, ‘For when they come it will no longer be just you and I, but doctors and medicine… and chaos,’ he laughed softly. ‘It is you I have been waiting for Francis, please. Let me see you…’

Crozier sat, an irrational dread filling him that having lasted this long James would die before his eyes for his delay in fetching help from just outwith the tent. ‘A moment, no longer, we must get some food inside you…’

‘Ah… food,’ James said, ‘I shall be glad to see the back of whale, however grateful I was for your gift. It was an unpopular dish but necessary.’

‘The others ate of it too, then, I am glad.’

‘Most, it lasted us over a week. The last few days have been less… nourishing,’ James pulled himself up on one elbow and Francis packed a folded coat behind him, so he may rest more easily, then remembering his bag he flipped open the catch, and began unpacking necessities.

‘What have you got there?’ James mused with bird like eyes and Francis recognised the stare of hunger. Crozier unscrewed the flask.

‘Lemon juice,’ he said, ‘I’m swimming in it, we all are, but I’ve had enough of this forced down my gullet in the last three days to turn me yellow, here, it’s your turn now,’ he held the lip to James’ mouth, ‘Drink,’ he instructed.

He took a mouthful and winced. ‘Stings,’ he groused. Francis chuckled.

‘Take your medicine, your gums will burn less with each swallow.’

James smiled at him somewhat gruesomely but consented, thirsty as well as citrus starved, he gulped back half the sugar laden liquid in a minute and then sat, breathless, supported by Crozier’s arm. With his free hand Francis rummaged in his bag for food.

‘Francis?’

‘Hmm?’

‘We need to speak, you and I, we need to get our story set, before Ross learns too much, certainly before we reach his ship.’

Crozier stopped what he was doing and looked at him curiously. ‘We do not need to worry about that now, James.’

‘But we do,’ James winced and tried to adjust himself in the sack, his breath laboured, he was clearly in some pain and fighting his damn’est to focus on his task. ‘The Beast, the Visions, the mutiny. The men believed you cursed…’

‘James…’ Francis sighed impatiently. God damn could he not just be cared for and to hell with the rest. His joy turned quickly to mild irritation. He wanted to close the tent to the world outside and focus, damn all else.

‘Hickey, Francis… Hickey? Carvnivale?’ James persisted,’ This voyage has been a litany of preternatural disaster and to add to all that went before, the men have witnessed your gift.  Some of those mutineers still live. They would still see you hang, they would still accuse you…’

‘James all that matters is that we are saved,’ Francis snapped, ‘That _you_ are saved.  The men can think what they like, believe what they want. They will forget their paranoia the moment their feet step upon English soil. We will reach home and none of it shall count.’

James fixed him with the last of his energy. ‘But it does, Francis, it does, and it will. There will be Court Martial.’

‘To hell with that! It is a mere formality… James I have crossed this Island twice over to bring you safe passage, can we not now ensure that you are well enough to make it home, not waste our breaths in speculation on my career!’

‘Court martial is just the start of it… Once we are home they will question your sanity, your reputation, you cannot afford to…’

‘I don’t give a buggering fuck about my reputation, James… about who knows what, if they believe me mad, or the opinions of the bloody Admiralty!’

‘Please,’ James looked at him desperately, a slight lurch to his gaze as he fought back a wave of exhaustion. ‘I would protect you Francis, I would see you safe.’

‘Safe?’ Crozier said bemused. He held James’ hand in both of his, noted how cold it felt amidst his own warm fingers. ‘Safe? I have all the safety I have need of, here in this wind blasted tent. England is far away, and her customs further. These last weeks you have been my only concern, above pain, above hardship… though I admit there are times the last few days when my rumbling belly did distract me,’ he cocked an eyebrow at James who snorted at him good-naturedly.

 ‘James,’ Francis said gently rubbing his hand, ‘You say you would see me safe, but you already have. You have seen all of us safe. Whene’er I lost myself it was you I thought of, it was you my Visions showed me.  They have guided me back to you and now I am here and you are alive, and I have all I e’er need, to be _safe_.’ He looked at him from under his brows, as earnest and open as he could muster.

Slowly James nodded, a halting and sorrowful assent.

 ‘It is my job to protect you now,’ Francis went on in a different, lighter tone, ‘You and only you. Ross and his men may care for the others but I, I will relinquish my duties, all but one. I will be here, by your side…. Feeding you lemon juice,’ he chuckled at James’ wince, ‘And caribou and whatever else I have squirreled away in this bag. All the rest can wait.’

‘Francis,’ James said tiredly.

‘I am not a fool, James, I will not speak of anything unworldly in company…’

‘You may not have to… I do not think these men will so easily forget.’

Francis sighed. ‘They will when they have fresh meat within them and a warm dry bed. And if you insist we make a plan… then we will do so. But only once you are _well_.’

Defeated James gave in. ‘Forgive me, I do not wish to argue, Francis, I do not mean to harry, but I want only the best for you. I have had so much to think on and these last two weeks have been unbearable, for more reasons than you know. ’ His eyes slipped shut a moment and Crozier smoothed his hair.

‘These next two will be a good deal better,’ Francis promised, ‘And the next two after that. Soon you will be strong again, aboard a ship bound for home, and then if you wish you may worry all you like about formalities, and school me in the right thing to say, and how to say it. For now, believe that all will be well. That all that truly matters is here within this battered canvas.’  

Crozier touched his lips to the fingers pressed between his hands, then kissed James’ forehead pillowed against the folded coat. He pressed his nose against his cheek softly, chaste and intimate, relief and purest affection moving tenderly though him, heartbeat by slow heartbeat.

‘You are _all_ to me, James,’ Crozier whispered against his skin, his tone rich with the warmth of his Irish brogue, ‘All. And ever will be.’

The march North, the rescue ship to England; they awaited them both, but for Francis he had already come home.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis and James finally reach Ross' ship and Francis' brief experiment with carefree optimism in the light of his lovers rescue comes to an end as he ponders the future.
> 
> And smut. Some much needed well earned smut in a clean bed. Although not entirely angst free of course.

McClintock was asleep before the wood burner and Ross’s lieutenants had retired to the mess to smoke. From further off Francis could hear the strings of a banjo and the strains of a sea shanty as his men grew slowly acquainted with the _Enterprise_ crew. It was a rare thing. For the most part the survivors kept themselves to themselves, still too weak to be of much use about the ship, or still confined to sick bay in the very worst of cases. Jopson was amongst those, he knew, though the lad improved each day. Crozier had called upon him before supper, told him that awful story about the cow, assisted by Blanky, half baked on laudanum after more surgery upon his leg and apt to embellish Francis’ humble tale with profanity and innuendo. Still, Jopson had laughed appreciatively at the ridiculous image of young Francis astride the beast. It had filled an hour and done some good.

Crozier checked his pocket watch under the edge of the table. It was not yet nine. Beside him he heard Ross sigh.

‘Really Francis, are these dinners such a trial?’

He started and looked at his friend, who raised one eye brow merrily.

‘I… no! No, James it is just…’

‘My steward is in attendance, Francis, you may relax an hour or two. Fitzjames is probably asleep, anyway.’

Crozier flushed and secreted the watch in his waistcoat.  He ran a finger along the restrictive starched collar of his shirt, well, Ross’s shirt if he was to be fair, his own clothes were in no state to be worn to officers’ supper, and his uniform hung too lose. He ne’er thought he’d see the day when his slim and well-proportioned friend would offer him a lend of his jacket and find that he could button it over his portly middle. He looked down, not so portly now, despite the constant eating since rescue, and worse since they boarded the ship a few days before and plundered her stores. He stared miserably at the cheese platter before them, heaped with blues and stilton’s, rich cheddars and some sort of French thing he was not sure the name of. From the corner of his eye he spied Ross grasp the cheese knife and slice a goodly portion, dropping it unto Francis’ plate.

Crozier looked skyward and James laughed. ‘Get it into you, Francis!’

His gums had healed, his teeth felt firmer in his jaw, his joints no longer ached. There were bruises still but their hue had lightened, and his guts had finally settled. He still had the headache, worse in the morning, and if he stood too quickly his vision would blur, but he could tolerate it and made no complaint. The wound on the back of his head had almost fully closed, so he reasoned, whate’er bleed might lay within would also have settled by now.  He was healing, and quickly too. He glared at the cheese. He supposed he had that to thank.

He had kept his word to Fitzjames. Though it was against every naval instinct he had handed command to Ross and allowed him to make decisions for his men. He had been grateful for Ross’s clear thinking and sense of organisation and efficiency. He bade the men camp a week to recover their strength, brought supplies and medicine, tended to the sick and removed all pressure from Francis’s shoulders, save that he placed upon himself. Then they marched North.

At first, the rush of relief he felt at finding James alive obscured all else and Crozier had no stamina for command. He was happy enough to walk by the sleds or be pulled a way with James bundled up in furs by his side.  Then bit by bit he found his ears attuned to the men around him, to questions and queries, opinions and plans. He wrestled with urge to make some proclamation, to decide on the behalf of his remaining men, to interfere.

When they camped each night he pulled closed the tent and focused on James. On feeding him up, bathing and dressing his wounds, on keeping him entertained. Parts of it came naturally enough, he found himself to be a passable nurse, but as his strength returned he grew restless. Fed up of his fidgeting James ordered him out now and then to burn off his anxieties with a walk, which inevitably ended with him patrolling the camp on an unofficial inspection and interrogating Ross on his plans.

Ross humoured him and he knew was genuinely accepting of his advice and concern. Crozier may no longer have a ship but he had led his remaining men to safety and his old friend understood that it was hard to let that responsibility slide, no matter how much one might want to, and no matter how much, Ross noted, he was influenced by the proximity of his unwell Second.

When at last they reached the ship, the familiar and regulated environment allowed Francis some respite from his increasingly pressing need to take charge.  It was somewhat easier to do given that Ross had e’er been in command between the pair of them, and he trusted him still, but it still rankled at times.  The place seemed heaving with captains and commanders and though officially he was a guest, he felt more like a spare once more.  He paced the decks at night to feel the cold, it was strange, but he mourned it.

Now he sat surrounded by bone china and silver knives, portraits of the good and great upon the wooden walls. All was warm and easy; the final leg of their ghastly journey was underway, but he could settle. His head thumped and an unknown worry nagged at the back of his mind, an unease about the future and about Fitzjames, he could not place it.

Ross drained his port and the clink of the glass upon the table drew Francis from his reverie. His friend looked at him kindly.

‘You are dismissed,’ he said, ‘Go, check on your friend, I see I will have no more conversation from you tonight.’

Crozier winced. He knew Ross longed to hear the details of the expedition and the faint muttering of the men around Francis’ history only served to peak his interest. Ross was polite and considerate, and would not push, knowing Francis had a dislike of anything akin to boastful public speaking, even between friends. But he would not wait forever, and Francis knew he must be careful and consult with Fitzjames before he divulged anything. They had thus far avoided the topic, but now they were onboard it must be broached soon. How to parcel up such disaster into manageable chunks and save his reputation. He had not cared at first, but the closer he drew to England the more he knew James was right. It mattered. Or he might hang.

 He glanced at Ross who waited half expectantly, as thought tonight might be the night to hear the tale.

‘Thank you, I will retire then,’ Francis said.

How sullen and ungrateful he must seem, but yet there was only faint bemusement in Ross’s eyes as he skulked from the cabin and edged past his steward in the passage.

James Fitzjames was not in sickbay. He had been allocated a berth two down from Ross’s cabin, separated only by that of the captain’s steward. While most of those rescued were slung up in hammocks with the rest of the men, it would be unseemly for those surviving officers to have to bunk in in such a way, so for them the berths were adapted, two to a space instead of one. A man on the bunk itself and another suspended in a hammock. Crozier had spent the last week swinging from the ceiling, and more comfortable than he’d been in his bloody Captain’s berth in years.

Francis slid the door shut behind him as James looked up from the bed. He was reading, a slim novel propped upon his chest, nestled in the clean and quaintly frilly white nightshirt which he wore. He was wearing hitherto unseen eyeglasses. It did much to purge Crozier’s melancholy.

‘What in God’s name are those?’ Francis laughed. James rolled his eyes.

‘My vision is not what it used to be,’ he said patiently, ‘Goodsir said these would help, and they do. Do not mock me, Francis.’

Crozier sat on the edge of the bed, between the rails and plucked the novel from James’ hands. He squinted.

‘‘Tis not your vision James, but the smallness of the text, how is anyone supposed to read that?’

‘Perhaps your eyes grow weak from age?’

‘Cheek! There is nothing wrong with my eyes! Or my age for that matter,’ he shoved the book back at James who caught it and folded it neatly shut against his sternum.

‘No? That grey haze which has been afflicting you of a morning then…?’

‘It passes,’ Francis said quickly and reached for the spectacles. He wrapped their legs around his ears and looked about, the world a magnified blur and the grey hints as visible as ever. It made his head ache even more.

‘Does that help?’ James chortled.

‘Not really,’ he took them off.

‘How was dinner?’

‘Passable.’

‘That’s one up from insufferable.’

‘McClintock dozed off.’

James snorted. ‘He is your countryman; can you not find some common ground?’

‘I am beginning to understand why the Admiralty complain about the Irish, if he is our representative.’

‘Him _and_ you, Francis,’ James said drily. ‘You are equally responsible for your country’s boorish reputation.’

Francis prodded him, ‘You usually have no complaints!’

James smiled, a slow and tender thing that reached his eyes and shaped them into warm crescent moons. His hand reached for Francis’ waistcoat, its fingers sliding between buttons and tugging gently. He watched their progress, felt each tip prize at his covered skin.

‘You are supposed to be resting,’ Crozier said quietly.

‘I’ve been flat on my back all day,’ James’s eyebrows twitched upwards, ‘and I am bored.’

‘You have your book…’

‘That is not the entertainment I seek,’ came the reply.

Crozier swallowed, the look upon James’ face piercing him. For so long the man had been weak and ill, he had not even thought of such matters of the flesh, their closeness transformed to something intimate and precious, but chaste. Now the first time in months Francis saw James anew and altered. Good food, medical attention, rest and sleep.  Something of his old roguery had returned, a shameful flirtation in his eyes. Though he had far to go, so many of his symptoms had eased in recent days and there was fresh colour in his cheeks. The skin upon his face was clear, his eyes were bright, his lips –

Francis found himself lingering too long upon them and obligingly James parted them a little with a flick of his tongue to wet the flesh. No cracks, no blood, his teeth shone white within.

‘Francis… please,’ he whispered. He tugged again.

Crozier glanced at the door, tight shut and solid.

‘The men will be abed soon,’ James coaxed, ‘Come, it is long since I held you for any reason other than to keep myself from freezing.’

He flicked open a button, then another, drew his fingers down the close of Francis’ shirt. Crozier shuddered a fire sparking in his belly.

‘Christ, James,’ his voice rasped, and James smiled, biting the tip of his tongue gently between his teeth.

‘You are stronger than I, Francis, you must need this by now,’ he suggested, and the last two buttons of his waistcoat opened. James hand dropped to his waist. Crozier shifted, suddenly hot and aching. ‘I cannot lie,’ James said softly, ‘I am not yet full recovered, it may be some weeks yet before I can find relief myself but…..’ he trailed his fingers lower and cupped him.

Francis covered his hand with his own, dragged them away. ‘I can wait then.’

James’ face fell, the deep lines of his cheeks flexing, his eyes wounded. ‘You have no need to wait, Francis! Look at you! You have four weeks of rescue behind you and you were e’er fitter than I. You have healed, you have rested, you… you clearly have regained your strength!’

‘I can wait.’

‘I don’t want you to wait!’ James said a little too loudly.

‘Hush, man, Christ would you have half the men hear you!’

James snapped shut his mouth and looked petulantly at the wall.  Francis sighed and reached for him.

‘James, please it is not that I do not wish it.’

James cast a look at his crotch. ‘Clearly.’

‘For God’s sake!’

‘Well why then?’

‘Because… because it would be selfish of me to use you in such a way!’

‘Use me? I am offering Francis, nay I am _asking_! I wish to feel close to you, man! We have been through Hell and each one of our encounters has been laden with misery, with hopelessness, with the fear it may be the last. I want that to change. I want something different. I want to lay with you now and give you pleasure and know that it is the first of something better, something new, something that will not perish in the bloody wilderness before its time.’

Crozier stared at him. James looked away embarrassed and close to tears.

‘James…’ he said softly.

‘When you left,’ James started and then swallowed hard. ‘When you left I thought I would ne’er see you again. I thought you would be lost to me, die alone upon the bloody ice, and I thought it as my fault, that I could not protect you from those mutineers, that I could not help to convince them, that I could not e’en delay your departure long enough to ensure you rested when that damn rock had split open your skull. I thought you would _die_ Francis and that I would ne’er have you in my arms again.’

‘I did not die…’

‘No… and nor did I.’

‘Thank God.’

‘But we both came close, and we have both needed weeks of rest to get e’en this far into recovery and for the first time in months I feel a little more like myself and I want… I want to….’ He stopped.  ‘Is this e’en what you want anymore Francis?’ he asked angrily, ‘Or was it a thing born of desperation and loneliness?’

‘What?’

‘I would understand. It would not be the first time men have sought comfort in one another only to relinquish such attachments when on dry land.’

‘No, Christ, no James!’

James watched him levelly, his head tilted just slightly back so that he did so from the length of his sharp nose.

‘When you found me, you told me all that mattered lay between us.’

‘And it does, it does, James!’

‘And yet I watch you struggle daily with your duties here, you cannot relinquish them completely… and I can understand that, Francis, for we are not yet home. You are Captain still. But what of when we reach England, what then?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Will you return to sea?’

‘Will you?’ Francis shot back. They locked eyes for a moment. James’s jaw twitched.

‘I merely ask where your loyalties lie, Francis,’ he said at last. ‘Whether they lie still with the navy or…’

‘Or with you, you mean?’ Francis accused.

‘Or with yourself!’ James snapped.  ‘For the navy would send you back to such a land in a trice without one jot of care for your life.’

‘James for God’s sake! You have gone mad! Enough of this now!’

He turned from him and glowered out into the berth, he could not bear such tension but equally he would entertain no further argument.

‘I wish you would consider it.’ James said behind him.

‘Consider what?’ Francis said irritably.

‘A life on land.’

Crozier watched his profile for a moment, downcast, the curve of James’ lip lost to a suddenly heavy heart. He felt wretched. They both, felt wretched.

 ‘All I’ve ever known is the sea,’ Francis said.

‘Not all,’ James countered softly. He glanced up at him through his dark lashes, his cheeks still flush from his earlier outburst, his pupils wide and deep. Crozier felt a pulse of desire mingled with a burst of repugnance at his own churlish behaviour.

‘James…. I’m sorry.’

‘You are always sorry,’ James said, ‘I wish that too would alter.’

Crozier sagged. He pressed a hand to his head where the steady thump of pain had elevated from emotion.

‘Francis… let me…’

He felt a hand on his shoulder as his jacket was pushed back and then his waistcoat quickly followed. In all the times James had touched him he had ne’er been undressed in such a way in the light. Now James drew away his silk cravat and slowly opened each pearl button on his shirt. He ran his eyes over the muscles of his chest, his fingers in the soft hair there, hands sliding under the linen, pulling, guiding until Francis found himself crawling atop the man within the narrow bunk.

They kissed, and no taste of death lingered, no metallic hint of blood, no scent of rot. Just the firm stroke of James’ tongue against his own and feel of his palms, warm and smooth, working their way into his smallclothes, over his buttocks. Francis kissed his neck and nosed his hair, fresh washed and oiled, soft against his healed scalp. He sucked upon his ear, felt James’ breath upon his cheek hot and rapid; his body under him moving in waves against his stomach and chest. Francis was hard, so hard, and needy, grinding against James in a way he had not dared to for months

James tugged his shirttails loose and opened the buttons of his trousers, precise and efficient, finding his way to Francis’s prick and circling it. Crozier gasped against his neck and levered himself up to find James looking back a him peacefully, his arm working in a slow motion as he tugged a gentle infuriating rhythm. Lifting one leg below him he rolled Francis to his side and brought his free hand to the back of his head.

James kissed his lips, nipping gently, then pulled back to watch him, the deep brown of his eyes shining richly. He kept up the slow and steady pace. For his own part, Francis ran his hand down James’ side, tried to edge under his arm and move lower but was arrested but a subtle shake of his head, a quiet flick of his eyes.

‘I told you,’ James breathed, ‘There will be time for that when I am recovered. At ease, Francis, at ease.’

‘I cannot just lie here and...’

‘Yes,’ a kiss, ‘You can.’

Crozier blushed and looked away, tracked his hand down over James’ buttock and pulled him closer, testing, but James remained soft against him save for a rare and subtle twitch. His hand was frim around Francis’ cock, the heat building now as he slowly, achingly tended to him. Francis felt his breath quicken in shame, God it had been but a minute but already he felt release coil in the pit of his abdomen. His eyes fluttered shut, his mouth opened slightly.

James kissed it softly, trailing his tongue along his lip, sucking on it gently. He picked up his pace a little. Crozier groaned, his fingers digging into James’ arse and his other arm drawing tight around him, tugging gently at his hair. He heard James hum softly, nose at his jaw.

‘That’s it, Francis,’ his thumb pushed against the underside of Crozier’s cock and he almost finished then and there. He felt his hips judder, jerking against James’ movement and tried to hold them back but James would have none of it.

‘Go on,’ he whispered, ‘Go on, my darling.’

Francis dipped his head against James shoulder and found himself clinging there both arms tight about him now, his hips working in time with his need, unable to stop his instincts. From each extremity a wave of pleasure ran at speed along each nerve and centred beneath James’ working hand. He was climbing much too fast, his heart pounding and his breath coming in wet bursts against James’ skin.

‘James…’

‘Yes… _yes,_ Francis,’

It was coming now upon him, too fast too soon, but he was helpless to stop it. He let out a strangled note of warning and then James seized him, pausing the beat upon his prick for an excruciating moment as he pulled his face to him from its refuge against his neck.

Startled Francis opened his eyes.

‘Look at me,’ James said. He flicked his fist over Crozier’s straining cock. ‘Look at me as it happens.’ A stoke, another, he held his eye –

Pleasure slammed through Francis, his seed spilling over James’ hand, his body suspended stiffly for an instant, tight against his lover’s. James held his gaze, a gentle smile upon his warm face, his eyes crinkled and with such a look of acceptance and adoration that at last Francis could bear no more and tore his eyes away. His throat tight, he panted from exertion and pleasure, folding in upon himself, oe’erwhelmed, wrung out and spent. James surround him in seconds, pulling him close and holding him until each laboured breath had passed.

The berth creaked quietly around them.

James kissed the top of Crozier’s head as he lay pensively in his embrace.

‘Forgive me, I wanted to see you,’ he explained quietly, ‘In all this time, I’ve never really seen.’

Francis felt his cheeks burn against his chest. ‘You might have warned me.’

A chuckle.

‘That may have defeated the purpose.’

‘Which was?’ he grumbled.

James pulled him away and looked down into his face. ‘Don’t you know?’ he asked innocently.

Crozier shrank against him. ‘Not really, James, lest it was to mortify me at the moment of ecstasy.’

Another despairing but affectionate sound. ‘You are infuriating, it is quite the opposite. What I saw was a beautiful thing, one that defies words, and it was not merely for my benefit that I had you look.  I know you saw it too, in me.’

Francis looked resolutely at the fine details of his lover’s chest, close under his gaze, but the tightness in his throat returned when he thought of the soft expression in James’ eyes at that miraculous instant just past.  He chewed the inside of his mouth. Saying nothing at first, James wiped a tear from Crozier’s cheek softly.

‘You did see, it didn’t you? he said, ‘More clearly than any of your Visions, and more accurate.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Your future. _Our_ future. Should you choose it.’

 

It was after four bells when the alarum peeled loud across the _Enterprise_ , and the deck canted forty degrees to port, but Crozier had been awake before that, as any experienced Captain might. The scrape of ice upon the hull had come to him in his dreams.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disaster strikes the ship.... in more ways than one.

The whole ship lurched and before it righted, Crozier was off the bunk and half into his uniform. James was slow to wake but with the second swell his eyes opened keenly. The sluggish grind and swirl of pancake ice had lulled them both to sleep but now the gales around them roared and the vessel tipped once more, hard to starboard.

Items clattered from the shelves, a plate smashed, a tankard rolled against the bed, but no sooner had it clunked against the wooden drawer beneath than it skittered back, past Francis’ feet as he braced himself against the whitewashed wall with one arm.

‘Hell fire!’ he cursed.

James pulled himself up by one arm, clinging above him to the bunk, his muscles defined, taut and strained.

‘What in God’s name? No storm was forecast.’

Crozier slid against the far wall, grappled with his great coat.

‘I would not know, I have not been on deck, but tucked below, neglecting my duties!’

‘The sea was calm! The reports fair!’

‘And you would glean such knowledge how, James? You have not seen the sky for days… Christ!’ The ship lunged again. Beyond the door the thunder of footsteps in the passage, a great shout of alarm.  Ross’s voice carried stern and forceful as he passed, ordering men into slops. Francis reached to slide the door open and James sprang from the bunk.

‘Where are you going?’ he demanded.

‘The deck, James!’

‘This I not your ship, Francis, Sir James has gone up.’

Crozier rounded on him, cap in hand, hair frazzled from sleep. ‘While my men are aboard this is as much my ship as his, and if a storm has hit us unprepared I will be needed. Get back to your bed!’

‘I will come with you,’ James reached for his clothing.

‘Do not be absurd! You are in no state, stay here, that is an order!’

They pitched forward, the deafening sound of waves against the hull, and James staggered. Casting but a glance in his direction Francis wrenched open the door to a muddle of noise and light beyond, and threw himself half bouncing down the passage against its walls and towards the hatch. As he grasped the ladder the chaos of the deck revealed itself, a tumult of bodies slung from hammocks, a mess of broken items and scattered pots from the great stove. The men had been lazy, failed to stow away their things after a night of song and grog and now all hell had broken loose. The smell of smoke in the stale air about him, the sight of flame, smashed lanterns and tipped candles. He would not allow such disaster again. He cursed then seized a passing boy by the muscles of his arm. He yelped at the strength of his fingers.

‘You! Find water and quickly, douse those fires, move, move!’ He thrust him forwards, the lad tripping in his hastily half-pulled boots, and took the ladder two steps at once out into the night.

The cold air hit his face in a prickling sheet. He grasped the hatch and planted his feet upon the slippery deck, his eyes adjusting. The world howled about him, pitch black and feral, the great bomb ship pitching to port and lurching back. A wave crashed icy o’er the gunwale and he caught the denser black of bodies washed towards the midline by its force. The men fell on their backs, rolled and tumbled, their shouts obscured by sound,  and the rush of frozen sea flew across the deck and surged against his knees. Crozier held on, looked skywards at the sails, they billowed above, sucked and flattened, then at once were full and swell. The rigging undulated wildly, loose ropes swung about the masts. The _Enterprise_ plunged forward, off course and reckless in her plight.

They must regain control.

Forty years of experience led him blindly down the deck, his instincts honed to every surge and muscle memory holding his legs steady against the dive and shudder of the planks. The wind took his breath and he tugged his collar up, shielding his face. Sleet blew in his eyes and stung his cheeks, he felt the burn of cold upon his ears. He grappled to the wheel, and a figure turned to him. Sir James Ross, his great coat not e’en fastened and flying round his legs as he gave commands as best he could to stem disaster, though barely one man could hear his call.

Crozier glanced at the compass, spinning in its glass and looked again at the sky.

‘Position?’ he bellowed.

‘Sou’West o’ Croker Bay! We have been pushed North! I have no clear mark!’

Crozier looked quickly about him, trying to orientate the vessel, but the night was as pitch as ever.  He stumbled to port, half drowning in the frozen water cast up by the storm and clung to the gunwale. There were cliffs in these parts, he knew, but when he cast his eyes about he could not e’en find the horizon. The ship rolled and lurched, the land beyond lost under her one moment and far above the next. Ross slid to his side, tumbling against the rolling edge of the ship.

‘Get back!’ Crozier commanded. ‘I will lose no men tonight!’

Ross seized him by the thick wool of his coat and hauled him aft. ‘Away, Francis! The sea!’

The sea, the blasted sea. How long he’d wished it thawed and now it was a monster. It surged and great pieces of ice crashed down beyond them, forcing them to duck against the gunwale. A tip and he went flying, his head cracking hard against the rail and everything went white. The pain shot through his skull like ne’er before and he clung to consciousness. He would not be made vulnerable again, the elements be damned, they would not take him or his crew. Blast the wind and blast the ice!

 Crozier blinked hard and focused, the edge of his sight white with pain. Another wave hit and then blessed chill sharpened his senses. He crouched by Ross, their knees soaked in bitter frozen water, their backs against cold metal.

‘Where is your ice master?’ Francis hollered.

‘Below!’

‘The blazes! Get him here!’

‘We are too far North, if we leave the Sound we will run into the pack!’ Ross ignored his demand. His master was a wizened looking cur who would barely stand upright in this squall. He was as good as useless.

Another crash of water and of ice. The thawing pack would be descending off the coast of Devon Island. The risk of icebergs in this season was too high and if not them, the cliffs themselves would tear the ship apart.

‘We must find ourselves! Locate the coast!’ Crozier yelled.

‘It is too dark!’ Ross called, ‘Not e’en starlight!’

‘One break in the cloud may be enough! Get your man up here _now_!’

He would send for Blanky were he not a limb down and currently clinging to his cot in sick bay. He imagined his grizzled face half wretched with frustration that he could not be above deck. Thomas would not hide amongst his bedding on a night such as this, he would be here at his right hand, or clambering amongst the rigging. He would help at all costs. But he could not, maimed as he was by the Beast, so Francis must do it for him. His guilt drove him onwards.

On all fours, the deck canted thirty degrees, Crozier crawled back to the midline of the ship with Ross in tow. He had ne’er seen him so hesitant in his orders, the man was a skilled sailor and a confident commander and yet his years of retirement seemed to have softened his resolve.  He hauled him to the hatch, ‘Get him!’ he repeated urgently as much to distract his friend as born of any hope the Ice Master might appear and be of use.

With a wrench and the sound of screaming timber the whole ship canted starboard and for a moment he felt they would be ejected to the sea. Crozier clung desperately to the rails about him, his eyes cast about the deck, men were staggering, falling against the masts.

‘Get down, down on your knees, men!’ Crozier bellowed. ‘To the masts, to the masts!’

The shadowy figures clung to the mizzen, He thought of Ross’s herculean recruits, young and strong, but inexperienced. They had ne’er been to this place, they had ne’er weathered an arctic storm.

‘Use the ropes!’ Crozier commanded. ‘Tether yourselves and fucking _hang_ on!’

Ross was clinging still to the hatch, the water lashing around him. There was no ice master in sight. Growling Francis pushed away, slid and barrelled and staggered his path across the dark deck until he came hard with a thud against the fore mast. He grasped the rope and looked above. For the briefest moment a trail of grey crossed the sky, a tiny split in the swirl of cloud.

A tremendous screech of timber and the ship snarled onto rock beneath, snagging for a moment then juddering away, pitching forward to the sea. The deck dropped from below his feet, he hung suspended for a beat from the rigging before the whole vessel pitched up sharply. Bodies flew behind him.

‘I said hold fast!’ he yelled, ‘Hold fast, men!’

He would not lose another. Not of his crew or of Ross’s. His future stretched before him bleak and uncertain but while he was aboard that ship he would defend those men with the last of his strength. He hauled upon the rope, jammed his boots into the rigging and climbed.

The gale blew hard, the rigging swung and he ducked to avoid the mast, but he must gain purchase, he must climb higher, for if he was to command them out of this mess he must see to whence he would lead them. He climbed and climbed, head ducked against the sleet which spat into his eyes, his fingers frozen, and what’s more he knew, the bare skin upon his palms tearing from the contact. His head pounded, but he blinked the pain away, for he needed his sight more now than ever and the world could not afford to spin more than it already did upon the earth’s tilted axis.  Fifteen feet up he wound his arms about the rope, tied himself to the rigging by the elbows and looked North.

The cloud split for a second, the sea roared. A great wave crashed upon the deck below and shook his bearings, but he was high enough now to see over its crest. A surge of bile hit his mouth as the starlight fell upon the cliff.

They were but a hundred feet clear and closing.

Crozier scrabbled from the rigging, down, down into the darkest pit below, shouting as he went, orders, direction, his voice hoarse but powerful. He swung himself from grip to grip to pull himself along the length of the deck and then with a leap of faith towards the thing he slammed into the wheel.

‘Full starboard!’ he bellowed and grasped at a man to his left, toppled him unto the wheel. The dazed lad looked at him in horror.

‘Pull boy! Pull!’ Crozier grasped the handholds, sent up a prayer that the rudder still functioned.

‘Full Starboard. Sails men, sails! Wi’ all your fucking might, pull!’

Bodies around him, crawling from the gunwale, unlinking from ropes.

‘Come on! D’ye want to live the night? Move!’

He heaved, the wheel straining under his weight, fighting him hard. The wind had picked up and blew hard now in the sails, though the broken ties still lashed and there was barely sense to it, the _Enterprise_ at last moved swiftly, rolling deeply, but maintaining some sort of course. The sky above parted, the moon glowed palely o’er them and Crozier looked ahead, the muscles of his shoulders burning.

The stars were melting.

He squinted against the wind. Each pin of light was streaking down, like droplets of rain upon a glass, like comets from the heavens, down towards the earth and her horizon, trickles of white.

_White. White. All was white. An iceberg loomed ahead and scattered beneath its hulking form a wreck. Of planks, and barrels, masts and sails. Of torn clothes and broken bodies. White, white, all was white, and it would be their grave._

He shook his head. The stars grew dim, then tiny above. Little dots amongst the sky once more. The wheel slipped in his grip and he heaved it back, his wet hands sliding, until he looped his arm through the slats and used the force of his bicep to hold it still.

They were moving too fast now, and his worst fears were confirmed. The slow trudge of the melting pack beyond Devon Coast was right before them. With wheel at full lock he could only wait and pray. Pray he had seen the warning in time, pray he could act well.  Pray the ship had power and strength enough to last, pray it had speed enough to pass by.  Pray that the men about him had the skill to turn her to safe water.

He shut his eyes against the sleet and held on.

 

The winds died an hour before dawn, and when the light came Crozier counted the men as he ordered them below deck. Not one was lost. He stood alone by the prow and watched the sun upon the water. Baffin Bay stretched before him like a cracked looking glass, darkly blue and still, bespeckled with ice. To the North great hunks of the pack floated with the current, such things of serene beauty at a distance, so hard and cold with threat when close.  He breathed, his breath a vapor, and felt the ache in his shoulders give way just a little. He ought to shiver, but he felt naught. Drenched through, half frozen, a sharp pain in his skull, he had no desire to return below deck. The air there would be thick with smoke and noise. He watched the sundogs in the sky, shining like the halos of angels.

He wondered if the lost souls of his men were guiding them now.

A footstep behind him and at last he turned to find the haggard face of Ross appraising him. The man looked ten years older from the night. Long ago in the Antarctic, Francis had guided _Terror_ through a strait much like this one. When he checked himself a few days later his red hair had turned sandy with grey. He wondered if he would see any such change now, but suspected his body had experienced so much of hardship and fear that it would cease to leave its imprint upon his appearance.

Still, Ross looked worn through and something else. He looked afraid.

‘What is it James?’ Francis asked.

‘You need to come below, Francis,’ he said quietly. ‘There is a… situation amongst the men. Some talk…’

‘Talk?’ Crozier said curiously but his lips smiled, they had survived hell itself, talk was but a luxury, ‘What kind of talk?’

‘Your men… there have been whispers…’ Ross began but Francis did not need to hear more. His vision greyed, the golden sundogs beyond the prow turned silver in his sight.  ‘Why did you not speak to me, Francis?’ Ross asked. ‘Why did you not tell me your side? They speak of witchcraft and of superstition, and of heresy. I would have quelled those fears and spoken sense into them, but now…’

‘Now, James?’

‘Now they claim evidence.’

‘Evidence? That is ridiculous.’

‘What man can climb a rigging in the darkness of a violent arctic storm and yet be unscathed?’

‘One who has been climbing rigging since before they all were born,’ Francis muttered.

‘Francis, no storm was forecast, it came from naught. These men know not the sea like you and I, they know not of sudden squalls and coquetry of Nature. Your crew…. Your crew have sown the seeds of paranoia widely.  They talk of curses, Francis… they talk of _you_.’

Crozier looked up at him sharply.

Ross furrowed his brow. ‘They have seen you….’ he struggled for a phrase, ‘They believe you see things from beyond this realm, that they guide you. That ill spirits have possessed your reason, protected you from harm and that you are the cause of their misfortune from the very beginning of your voyage.’

Crozier laughed sharply. ‘I… _I_ was the cause,’ he shook his head and ran a palm along the gunwale. ‘I who raised my concerns earlier than anyone. I who would have had Sir John turn back. _I_ was the cause…’

‘A melancholy man, steeped in bitterness and closeted from his crew,’ James said, and Francis raised his eyebrows. ‘One filled with resentment at his situation, one who hails from a land of imps and banshees,  witches… a man such as that might seek vengeance.’

‘Jesus, James, really?’

‘They are ordinary sailors, Francis, you know how they think.’

‘They think I cursed my own men? My own damn ship?’

‘They do,’ Ross said, ‘And now they believe you curse mine.’

Francis felt a cold wave of horror creep through him. Frightened men were dangerous men and he was alone amongst them. ‘Christ,’ he whispered. ‘We are a thousand miles yet from home…’

‘I know,’ Ross said grimly.

‘What will you do? What should _I_ do?’

‘Try to reason with them, speak the truth?’

‘The truth!’ Francis barked. ‘Christ if they do not wish to hang me now, they will then. Oh God almighty, James….’ He leaned heavily against the rail, the pulse of pain now deep behind his eyes. ‘Is it not enough I must face trial upon my return to England. Must I be court martialled now by mine own men.’

‘It would seem you must, Francis.’

 

He went below. The air smelt of soot and foul slush water dredged from the lower deck to quench the flames.  The men were gathered on the main deck, they lined the walls and closest to the centre, bunched around the stove, were the remnants of his own crew. All but the very sickest were in attendance. Blanky was missing, but he noted Tozer and Collins, and to one side Irving sat uneasily avoiding his gaze. E’en he it seemed was influenced at last. The devil was amongst them and he saw that he bore Crozier’s face.

Francis hesitated for a moment at the base of the ladder then drew himself up as well as he could. He should speak with these men and make them see sense, but the walls of the ship seemed so far away, and his head thumped in anguish. He felt every eye upon him, but the faces of Ross’ crew merged into one. It was his own men who arrested him, the boys he knew so well. He had grown to love each face, took time to know their stories, and carried them through the wastes by the strength of his conviction alone. He had given himself to the Visions in the hope that they might live as a result. He would have died for them, had they asked. Perhaps they now did.

All he had e’er done, was to try to keep them safe. He had been a fool at times, a drunkard, a bitter miserable man. He had made mistakes and followed prophecies out of hope and desperation, but he had done it all for good, they could not accuse him of darkness in his heart for he had mourned every loss as keenly as thought they were his own children. He was not free of guilt, God knew, and their brothers’ ghosts may haunt him if they wished until the end of his own days, but he had tried his best, all from good intention, he had ne’er wished them ill.

His eyes at last found James, who took his place by Ross’s side. Crozier looked to him in hope, at least one voice would speak on his behalf.

And then James looked away. Quickly, shamefully, his jaw set.

Abandoned thus, Crozier glanced to the deck. A pool of sea water forming around his feet, dripping from his coat. His vision spun, his nausea rose and the steady pulse of pain grew and grew. He shivered now, a weak and sickened creature before his cast of judges. So, they thought him cursed.

They were right.

Grey. The world looked grey. He swayed in fatigue. He thought of the sea, the great swell of Nature’s arms beyond those thin and timbered walls. He should cast himself into its grasp, for all felt lost.

A hand slipped to his shoulder, placed a towel around his neck. Slim fingers unbuttoned his greatcoat and hefted its damp wool from his body. He looked up briefly, the weight slipping from his shoulders, but his cold shirt clinging to his back.

‘I’ve got you, sir,’ Jopson said softly, the light of a lantern behind him, a sundog in the dusk.

He blinked. ‘Thomas… you should still be abed… you are not well…’

The lad smiled and the kind lines of his face shimmered. The pain flared. Crozier had time to feel the weakness in his knees, Jopson’s rapid saving grasp upon his arm, and then the deck was rushing to his him, hard and cold and splintered.

He did not wake for days and when he did, he was betrayed.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well damn, writing James being mean to Francis is the hardest thing ever.  
> Much misery this chapter as the boys dock in Portsmouth.

The first thing he noticed was the calm swoosh of water upon the hull, a sound both familiar and nostalgic to his senses. For so long now only the creak and press of ice had lain against wood and iron. This was a sound from the past, from long before the fated voyage North, from a time when ships had glided unhindered through sea, and death did not wait at the end of their passage.

It failed to comfort him, other than to confirm he was still breathing.

Francis opened his eyes to darkness, at first pitch and thick, and then slowly light crept from beneath a door, cast shadows upon his surroundings. He was in his berth, upon the bed, his arms tucked neatly under rough blankets, but the air smelt of lamp oil freshly extinguished, and of soap. He trained his ears about him, let his body thrum with the swell of waves below.

A creak to his left and he looked o’er to where his hammock was suspended. Occupied by another body now. His head still ached and gingerly he uncovered one hand to feel amongst the bandages. Dry and clean, like everything around him. How long had he lain thus?

There was a cough from the hammock, a slow murmur of sleep. Crozier wet his lips.

‘James?’ his voice was a roughened whisper, but the hammock twitched immediately in response. A pair of legs swung down.

‘Sir? Sorry sir, I must have dozed off.’

A match struck and the flare was blinding for a second before the voice dimmed the lamp and set it by his bed.

‘Are you in need of anything, Sir?’ Jopson asked, his face moving into view.

‘Thomas?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What in hell…. Where is James?’

‘He’s bunked in with the Captain sir, I mean… Sir James, sir, they felt it best you be given some space to recover. All things considered.’ He looked away, busied himself with a cloth.

‘All things…?’

‘Don’t you worry about that now, sir,’ Crozier watched him rinse the rag in cold water and fold it o’er and o’er in his hands.

‘Jopson!’

The lad bit his lip. ‘You just focus on getting better, sir,’ he said vaguely.

Francis struggled to a sitting position, propped upon his elbows. His head swam at the effort and his limbs felt oddly weak. Days, he must have lain here days. ‘You will tell me this moment exactly what has been going on,’ he said trying to muster some command to his weakened throat. ‘How long have I been here? And why are you attending me?’

‘I’m your steward, sir.’

‘You are a bloody lieutenant now, not a gentleman’s valet!’

‘I’m happy to attend you, sir, and the Captains agreed it would be best…’

‘Jopson!’

‘You can trust me, sir,’ Thomas said, and laid the cloth upon his neck, cool and soothing.

Ah. So there it was. The memories of the crew’s whispers came back to him now. The line of faces judging, the accusations of curses and witchcraft. He had been carted back to his berth and deposited there, out of sight, out of mind, and here at the end of all things, was Jopson, e’er faithful, his last companion. Francis sank back against the pillow.

‘That’s it, sir,’ Jopson murmured.

‘How bad is it?’ Crozier asked. Again, the lad chewed his lip.

‘I think it’s probably best you stay here, sir,’ he said, ‘Until we dock.’

‘That is weeks, lad.’

‘Well…’ a rinse, a squeeze, the sound of water falling, ‘Yes, sir. That is what the Captains suggest, sir.’

At least they had not cast him o’erboard, he should be grateful for small mercies. Francis touched his brow. ‘Am I sick?’ he asked.

‘The ships surgeons suspect you have aggravated that head of yours, sir. Captain Ross said you took a blow on deck in that storm and Dr Goodsir had warned you before of a bleed but you did not heed advice…’

He had not been in a position to rest as instructed, given the mutiny and long trek north to find their rescue but there was no sense in arguing that point now. ‘Hmm…’ was all he said.

Jopson forced cheer into his words. ‘But you are awake, they will be pleased with that progress.’

‘If I am awake then I can leave this berth and attend to my duties…’ Crozier grumbled.

‘No, sir,’ Jopson said surprisingly firmly. ‘Your duties have been… allocated elsewhere.’

Francis raised his eyebrows. ‘Allocated? Or removed?’ he said.

Thomas said nothing in reply, only looked at him plaintively, his bright eyes a well of understanding he could not speak, and there was something of desperation in his steward’s eyes too. Something which would will him silent and stem all argument. Clearly whatever was happening beyond those doors was not Jopson’s fault and if ever a man had given his all to protect his Captain it was that boy. There was no sense in debating it, or in making Jopson’s role more difficult. If the men believed he was tending a cursed man he had already placed himself in jeopardy.

‘You, know, Thomas, now that I am myself again, you do not need to stay,’ Francis said kindly, ‘You should rejoin your mates. If distance from me is what is needed for your own reputation, then it must be done. I understand.’

Jopson finished bathing his face and set about repositioning his blankets. ‘That won’t be necessary, sir,’ he said quietly, ‘I do not believe the things they say, and my duty lies with you. It always has done sir. Your reputation and mine, they are as one.’

‘Blind faith,’ Crozier muttered.

‘Not blind sir,’ Thomas said, ‘I have seen too much, to be blind.’

‘Still you need not bind yourself to me, now. You are your own man, and I would have you protect yourself; you have a choice in the matter!’

Jopson looked at him softly, ‘I do,’ he agreed.

 

Confined as he was to quarters, with no stars above or sea below, Francis began to suspect he was going mad. He could not recall the last time he had been so separated from the elements of the earth, and the whitewashed berth around him seemed to shrink with every passing day. He was banned from the ship at large, lost track of the hours, and slept far more than he should for want of other entertainment. It was, as it was intended to be he realised, a prison and the longer he there rested, the heavier his remorse became.

The accusations of witchcraft barely mattered, for now he had times to think properly on the dead, all one hundred and five. Arrested by his guilt and consumed with the drive of his duty, even now, he requested paper and ink and wrote a list of names, as easily as though he copied it from the ships register, save that they were no longer by rank, or e’en by alphabet, but writ in the order of their loss, beginning with Beechey and ending with those lost at Terror Camp in those final days.

 One by one he took a name and wrote to each family, making sure that each note was as personal as could be and that it contained some account of the courage of each lad lost. He knew that grief would be as fresh to each mother, wife or sister as it was to him the day each man had died. The passage of years and months may lend some softness to his heartache, but he knew the families still waited for a sign, that each day they checked the missives and the papers. They would not know the details until he landed in Portsmouth and the news began to spread from _Enterprise_ like flame. He did not want them to see the name of their loved one upon a billboard or in the newspaper. It had to come from him. He was their Captain still and to the end.

Francis passed the days before his makeshift desk, penning tributes to his lost crew and occasionally checking facts with Jopson. Had the muffler that lad had worn been knitted by his sister or his aunt? Did that able seaman e’er mention a sweetheart? Jopson added what he could, and heated wax, poured it o’er the folded paper for Crozier to seal shut.

James Ross poked his head around the door of the berth from time to time but would answer no questions other than those around their progress and passage back to England. Sufficient repairs had been done, Francis’ old crew grew stronger and took their places amongst the rigging and elsewhere, banjos played at meal times and shanties filled the air as they worked. It seemed that quite the merry band of sailors were now manning the decks in Crozier’s absence.  He was pleased, despite his own continuing misery. Time was healing them and that was just, for they all deserved the future without the burden of the past. Slowly fear was falling from their memories, their thoughts e’er prey to the tragic and singular fortune of the human condition, its inability to truly remember the detail of pain.

To remember it would halt all war, all cruelty and all pointless hardship, but it would also halt all adventure, all discovery and all hope. He wondered if the memory of pain would also stop all love. He doubted it, for all he felt was pain, and yet love lingered on.

James Fitzjames was nowhere to be seen, but like a flower seeking the sustenance of the sun, Francis would bend his ear to hear his voice.

Late of an evening Crozier would release his faithful steward to seek the company of others and be free of the little cell that imprisoned them both, and on these nights he would leave the door ajar so that the sounds and cheer from the deck might filter back to his captain, alone in his berth. The noise of laughter and of revelry, music and merriment, and in the last few weeks of tall and wonderous tales.

When the deck had first fallen quiet, Crozier’s instinct was to listen, for trouble or disturbance. He had crept then to the door and heard the shuffle of men as they took their places, the clank of tankards and the confident tone of a familiar voice.

‘At ease, men, at ease!’

A muffled cheer, followed by a modest laugh from James.

‘Ah very well, very well, you have all been very patient! Allow me to refresh myself… ah thank you… thank you Mr Diggle, just the thing, a hearty grog, and not e’en watered down!’

A ripple of good humour.

‘Where should I begin our tale then boys?’

‘The Beast sir, tell of the Beast!’

‘Ah indeed…. The Beast, and what a Beast it was, we scarce believed it possible, such a monstrous thing must be born of the spirits o’ the land, the Esquimaux would have us believe it so but such savages are steeped in Pagan rites and meant us only harm, they would use what they could to frighten us and their own primitive beliefs were milked for the benefit of our fear.’

A muttering of mixed assent and increduosity. Crozier frowned.

‘It was an unnatural thing sir, not of this world,’ a faint voice argued.

‘Nonsense, lad! Have those savages twisted your very intellect?’

‘But…’

‘We Englishmen know better! Oh there is no shame in it boy, in harsh climes and when hungry it is easy to fear the hand of the supernatural and such a thing was fierce indeed and struck terror into all who saw it…  but I knew from the start could be dispatched, if the circumstances faired well, like any other hulking bear… e’en if it was three times its size.’

‘Three times, sir?’

‘Aye, at least! But a bear it still was.’

Francis crept forward down the passage until the scene unfurled before him. Ross’s crew gathered round the stove, their eyes bright with wonder. His own men scattered amongst them, a few scowls to be seen as their sanity was questioned by their commander, and there at the centre, James, resplendent in uniform, hair oiled, the gilt of his buttons gleaming. He was the picture of respectability and honour, a lord of fine oration, and he had brought them to this ship, no man here would doubt his truth.

He hunched forward conspiratorially, and the men seemed drawn as by string towards him.

‘It had stalked us many weeks, from the ships themselves, for creatures of that size have little to feast upon in the arctic and they scent the blood of Englishman as well as any giant might…. But this was no fairytale, lads, this was our life and though our minds were wearied, and we feared from whence it came, what mattered was only its end and how to go about it. So it was upon that Fateful day, we hauled ourselves North in our boats, and it sensed our weakness, lingered close to our path, as though it would prey upon our sickest…’

Crozier glanced about the deck, at each enraptured face.

‘I saw it coming, pressing closer, and though my wounds were grave, I knew I could not let it feast upon my boys. It descended upon us with a fearful roar, and guns fired left and right, but the thing barely flinched at their contact and knowing it would take much more to fell a Beast of its size I dispatched my men, ordering them to run… Alone, I took a stand…’

‘Alone sir? Where was the Captain? I remember…’

‘He had fallen behind,’ James snapped quickly, ‘And came upon us after the event. Now…. Alone I took a stand, there were rockets still upon the lead boat, and while the thing was occupied I made a dive…..’

It was not a tale that ought to be told lightly, for so many of his men had died that day, and something of James’ grandeur rankled, e’en aside from his own neglect of Crozier’s part. The great slaying of a beast in an explosion of fire might hold the men rapt, but there were  a dozen stories waiting to be told to lovers, wives and children back in England. Francis slunk back to his gloomy berth, and with James’ fine voice still ringing out across the main deck, he penned his final letters.

 

There were not quite one hundred by the time he had finished, for some of the men had been brothers and he wrote of them together. On the last day he counted out the pile and looked forlornly at the stacks of neatly folded paper upon his desk. Beneath each layer a red stain bound the parchment shut, kept safe the words until their loved ones held them. He nodded to Jopson who opened a sack and carefully Francis packed each handful. He had half a thought to distribute each one himself, but speed was of the essence in delivering such news and he would have them sent upon his return. Jopson drew closed the sack and placed it upright on the bed.

‘We will be there soon, sir,’ he said, ‘Is there anything you need before we dock?’

‘No, Thomas, go and see to your business, or better still go up on deck, you should watch from there with the others.’

‘I don’t mind, sir, I can see it when we arrive.’

Crozier glanced at him, ‘Jopson, you have spent too long suffocating in this little berth with me, go on now, be with your brothers, you are going _home_ , lad.’

To his surprise Jopson’s wide blue eyes turned wet. Dear, professional, proper Jopson, who had not wavered once in his loyalty, who had sat in the dark and nursed his Captain through not one but two illnesses, to the detriment of his own health, sanity and reputation amongst the men, who had followed him through every hardship, and obeyed every command without e’er thinking to question it. Jopson of all people, for whom the Captain and his duties had been all, for whom home held so little, now trembled at the prospect of it being so near.

‘Go, on now,’ Francis said again gently.

‘I don’t like to think of you down here, while we are all up top,’ Jopson confessed, ‘You brought us home, sir, you should sea the coast when we do…’

‘It’s all right, Thomas, I will see it soon enough….’

‘But there will be a fanfare, people will come to meet us, word was sent from Shetland sir, they will expect to see you…’

Francis sighed. ‘Well they will have Ross… and Fitzjames. They are better equipped than I to be the heroes of the hour.’

‘But that isn’t fair when you have…’

‘Enough,’ James’s voice cut in from the door e’en as he slid it open. ‘You are relieved Mr Jopson, to top deck with you… now… and no more of this heartfelt nonsense.’

‘Yes, sir.’

James slid the door back with a bang and stood before Francis. There was no a mark upon his uniform, not a hair, not a speck of lint. All was pressed and starched and fine, the leather of his boots shone to a high polish, his cocked hat under one arm, a sword hanging by his side. Francis flushed, his battered peaked cap askew and his salt stained great coat hanging loose.

‘We should dock within the hour,’ James said. ‘I trust you are now recovered.’

‘I… I have been for some time,’ Francis said.

‘I am glad to hear it.’

‘James… you did not call upon me,’ he said softly and moved to touch his arm, but James stalked across the length of the little berth, to peer at the sack upon the bed. He grasped it roughly and tipped it towards him.

‘You have been busy,’ he remarked, ‘Such a pile of correspondence, Francis, I am glad you have not been idle whilst so confined.’

‘It is for the families,’ Crozier said quietly. James’ jaw twitched and he straightened, the sack cast aside and its contents spilling.

‘I see,’ he said tonelessly.

‘James, I know things will have not been easy, and there is much I will have missed, amongst the men during my illness. I understand if perhaps you felt bound to keep away, but before we boarded, you suggested we discuss…’

‘There is nothing to discuss now, Francis,’ James’ voice cracked with a false lightness, ‘It is too late for that anyway. We are home. The men are well, you are recovered, we dock shortly. Until the Court Martial there is no more that needs doing. Or saying for that matter, for it has all been said,’ he hesitated, ‘ _Too_ much has been said, perhaps, but it cannot now be helped. What has come to pass cannot now be altered and if it is advice you seek, I suggest when the time comes you would be best to speak the truth.’

‘The truth!’

‘The truth,’ James confirmed and eyed him levelly.

‘I have heard your truth James, these last nights, spinning your yarns to the men, omitting the details… your version of the truth is not one I recognise.’

‘And you should be grateful for it, Francis. For it will not help your case if the men believe in monsters and curses or anything that might lend itself to such a version. You should consider the facts of what has happened, without such fancies. I have told no lies, merely smoothed the edges of your florid and unreliable interpretation of events. I have made it palatable to the sober ear.’

‘My… _what?_ ’ Francis exploded, ‘You accuse me now of instability?’

‘Visions, Francis are the stuff of madness. And we were all half mad upon the ice. I come to see that and you must also see that now, you were unwell… quite unwell.’ Something of his sneer reminded Francis briefly of Sir John.

‘Do not patronise me, you were quick enough to believe when all hope for your life rested upon them!’

James flinched but he quickly regained composure, so quickly Francis could not name the thing that had revealed itself in the moment of his sting.

‘I was desperate,’ James reasoned, ‘As we all were. I have seen sense. These were follies, Francis, born of a sickness, born of _drink_. The Doctors are in agreement with me.’

Crozier saw red. Long had he drunk to obscure the Visions and James knew that whisky was not their source but the one thing that dampened them. How dare he blithely dismiss their value as the ravings of a drunkard?

‘These _follies_ have saved your very life!’

‘So you say, Francis….’

 ‘Enough! I had thought you had become a better man but now I see you for what you are,’ Francis raged, ‘Now that you are safe, now that you have left that place you cling once more to your privilege and wash your hands of me, for I am a thing contaminated am I not, a thing of low birth and common heritage, seen by all who matter as less, as unworthy, and now as mad.’

James reeled. At last Francis had made an impression on his imperious features.

‘Ah but you James,’ he went on, ‘You are a beautiful and noble _bastard_ and whilst I had thought you had turned away from sham and pretence it would seem you have returned again to what you know best, scrabbling to earn affection from those in power and cover your ignoble roots. You have bent your tales to your own sense of glory, painted yourself the hero once again, constructed a reality around you so that you might be honoured in the eyes of the admiralty and had me fall by the wayside lest I muddy your splendour with my dirty Irish blood!’

For a second James appeared to seethe. Then he collected himself once more. Damn him, damn him and his glass exterior.

‘You were ne’er one to seek glory, Francis,’ James said coolly though his eyes burned, ‘Why does it now trouble you so?’

‘If you think this is about glory, you are very much mistaken.’

‘Then what?’                                                                     

Crozier looked at him incredulously. ‘Then what?’ he repeated, ‘This is about _you_ James! The very shadow of the man you had become. A good and honourable man, a friend, a brother, a light to me in all that was dark. Yet you come now to my berth, the very image of a stranger, no warmth, no understanding, no concern, you dismiss me utterly!  Hell’s teeth a friend would have troubled himself to visit me but once these last few weeks and I had thought you so much more than that.’

James glanced at the wall but said nothing.

‘What are you man, made of stone?’ Francis fumed.

‘Calm yourself.’

‘How dare you order me calm! I am still your bloody Captain!’

James swung his gaze around to meet him. ‘No, you are not,’ he said curtly. ‘You are the disgraced commander of a failed expedition, you await the judgement of your betters and now we are returned, you can be nothing to me now.’

 For shame, his own eyes grew hot as Fitzjames coldly stared him down. Who was this stranger now before him, who skilfully prodded each weakness and each fear with sharp fingers?

 ‘What would you accuse me of James?’ Francis stammered, ‘On what have you reflected during these weeks? Why do you abandon me when I ne’er abandoned you? Do I sully your reputation? Do I bring you shame? Is our closeness the cause of this change in you? Or am I merely such a terrible first that you cannot bring yourself to associate with me? Do you blame me for it all?’

James was pale, so pale and for a moment Francis thought he caught the tremble of his jaw, the flicker of something behind his eyes, the slipping of a mask. He hesitated, choosing his words carefully, as though loathe to condemn, but forced to by a promise.

‘Twenty-four men out of one hundred and twenty-nine,’ James said steadily, ‘Twenty-four men return now to their families while the rest lay dead. And you ask me if I think you are a terrible first?’

Francis looked at the sack of letters and their lost names. He swallowed painfully. Therein lay his answer.

 ‘We are coming to dock,’ James said without further elaboration and brushed past him, ‘You may join us on deck.’

 His footsteps retreated down the passage and echoed as he climbed the ladder. Francis lingered by the bed, wishing against hope that James might see sense and return to him, that whatever anxiety drove this change of heart could be resolved, that the hurt could be reversed. His eyes rested on the sack upon the bed, cast over and the tips of some cream missives poking from the cloth.

 Some things, he realised, could never be undone.

Perhaps James was right. About the men, about his madness;  about his failure and about the blame that he must carry. Perhaps James was right about it all.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James... explain yourself right this minute! Ok explain part of it at least! Like where you are and what you've been up to and whose gloves those are.
> 
> Seriously man, these chapters are hurting.... hang in there... I'm gonna do so much fluff to make up for this.

The snow was still falling thick but Sophia made no move to mount the steps to Lady Franklin’s home. The walk had been long and slow, and now the bells were striking nine. She would have missed her supper, Francis realised with a pang of guilt.

‘And when you docked, what then?’ she asked.

Francis kicked at the slush by his feet and wished she would do the sensible thing and see to her needs.

‘I proceeded to London, James took a carriage North. I later heard he had been fortunate enough to come into inheritance during his absence.’

‘Oh?’

‘A house in Hertfordshire, apparently. He disappeared there for a time, and nobody heard a thing  before he was summoned back to town.’

‘To receive his knighthood,’ Sophia said.

‘Indeed.’

‘And he made no contact at all? No letters?’

‘Not a word. When the Admiralty hosted their Gala I had hoped… but, you were there, you saw the outcome.’

‘What of Sir James Ross?’ she asked curiously.

Crozier sighed. ‘I fear whatever madness has afflicted James has been contagious. Ross acknowledges me, but we cannot be described as close.’

‘It is a very sudden turnabout,’ Sophia glanced upwards at the lit windows of the property. ‘But I feel yet there will be an explanation.’

Crozier looked back over his shoulder at the quiet street. ‘It is late, go in Sophia.’

‘Lady Franklin will still be up,’ she mused.

‘Yes, and she will be worried.’

‘She will pry, more like,’ Sophia said, ‘Come!’ and she held out her hand.

Francis blinked.

‘Well come on,’ she urged and seized his wrist. Sophia tugged him beside her and made for the passage at the side of the fashionable house, taking the narrow steps down with practised ease and propelling them both along the straw covered slabs to a darkly painted door.

‘What in hell’s name are you doing, woman?’ Francis hissed.

‘‘Tis the servants’ entrance.’

‘I can see that!’

Sophia rummaged in her skirts, ‘I have a key,’ she whispered with a wink. Crozier bit back his smile and shook his head.

‘If Lady Franklin…’

‘If Lady Franklin what?’ she asked wrestling with the old latch, ‘If Lady Franklin discovers I am smuggling ships’ captains into our basement she will explode with wrath?’

‘It is bad enough that you did not return home after the Gala! Now you are trying to sneak men into your rooms after dark?’

The locked popped.  Sophia placed one glove upon the handle and turned to him in mock horror. ‘My rooms, Francis? Whoever said I was taking you to my rooms?’

He flushed. ‘Christ, I did not…’

‘Oh, you silly man, come in, come in…’

The passage led through to the kitchen and there lay a wide hearth and a rustic table, its creased cracked and pounded wood engrained with flour and hastily wiped down. A large middle aged woman in a cook’s bonnet sat by the fire sewing and near fell o’er her chair with shock at the arrival of her mistress and a dour looking man in a wet coat and hat.

‘Miss Sophia!’

‘Sit down, Nancy.’

‘Miss Sophia what have I told you about coming in that way, her Ladyship will have a fit, she has been pacing the floors, so she has, the best part o’ the day!’

Francis frowned there was something familiar about the woman’s tone.

‘A little exercise will do her good,’ Sophia was saying as she untied her bonnet, ‘This is Captain Crozier, Nancy, will you help him there with his things, he is wet through.’

The servant’s eyes flicked to him quickly. ‘Captain…. Oh, sweet Lord!’ He rough hands flew to her mouth and she gaped at him, glassy eyed and flushed. ‘Oh, Jesus! I ne’er thought I’d see the day!’ She scuttled across the kitchen tiles and immediately began undoing his buttons, glancing up timidly every few seconds to check his face. ‘You are just as your portrait, sir,’ she said coyly.

‘My what?’

‘In Bainbridge, sir?’

‘Bain…’ his eyes widened.

‘Of course, it is a year or so since I have seen it myself, and I believe now it has been sold…’

‘Sold? What? Who on earth commissioned it in the first place?’

‘Why your sisters, sir, they had it painted for your return.’

‘Why in God’s name?’

‘Well…’

‘Nancy do stop tiring him out,’ Sophia said from her place by the fire. She had stripped back her furs and was drying her skirts.  ‘I’m afraid I’m to blame, Francis.  When she applied I questioned her in our drawing room and the impertinent woman took to critiquing our décor.’

Nancy giggled as she flicked open another heavy gilt button.

‘So you see it is my fault,’ Sophia said, ‘I introduced her to the delights of fine art and she noted that upon our walls there were only portraits of mine Uncle and great Admirals. She rightly pointed out that you deserved to stand amongst those good and great and...’

‘How in God’s name does a cook know anything about me?’

‘Can you not hear it in my accent, sir?  You are quite well known back home. I went to school with your sister sir, and when I wrote her about the paintings she decided it was only fair you have your own.’

He stared down at her.

‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘When she heard of my home town,’ Nancy said, ‘Miss Sophy here insisted on hiring me and I was so grateful sir, it has been a terrible time in Ireland, so it has, what wi’ the famine..’

‘The…’ he batted her hands away, ‘Famine, woman? What famine?’

Nancy looked at him with startled blue eyes.

‘He has been at sea, Nancy, he does not know,’ Sophia said gently.

Nancy paled.  ‘Why the potato blight, sir. E’en the well to do families are affected now, and there are thousands of us here, seeking work, more in Liverpool and further North. Back home, the South and West got it worst sir, but it creeps, it does creep and there is no-one safe.’

He seized her by the arms, ‘My family, what word of them?’

‘They are quite well sir,’ Nancy trembled. ‘For they had your salary to keep them fed. But they had to sell a great deal, and your sisters, being un married, well for a time they had to seek work and hard it was too for them. I understand they are more comfortable now, I got a letter just the other day, from Charlotte, sir. They have had some luck of late; the worst is past.’

He sagged, and she removed the great coat from his shoulders. Christ, he had spent the last year half starved in the arctic only to find his family had suffered the same affliction. Nancy moved him by the fire and set about rustling in the pantry.

‘You’ll both be hungry,’ she called, ‘Give me but a moment.’

Sophia eyed him from across the hearth. He shielded his face from her gaze with one hand, rested above his brow.

‘Is it usual for a man to send his salary home to his family?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘It is quite customary to send a portion…’

‘A portion, Francis, not _all_.’

Crozier lifted his hand a little and peered at her.

‘How do you know that?’

‘Nancy is not the most discreet. And knowing we were friends she shared the contents of her letters to your sister.’

Crozier rolled his eyes and retreated again behind his palm. ‘My sister was ne’er discreet either,’ he commented. ‘Christ how did they manage, one man’s pay even while at sea will not feed so many mouths.’

‘Nancy says they have had some fortune, we must be grateful.’

‘We are,’ Crozier said, ‘But they are my responsibility, God I do not e’en have aught to send them now.’

‘You will have no backpay then?’ Sophia said.

‘No.’

‘No savings?’

‘None.’

‘Possessions?’

‘Some may have survived the moths I suppose, I have yet to check.’

‘It is as though you have just walked out of the sea…’ she mused.

‘Is that supposed to be amusing?’

‘I only mean…. It is like a rebirth, Francis. Unburdened by possessions or money, just yourself.’

‘That is burden enough,’ he grumbled.

‘It must be freeing in a way.’

‘On the contrary, I am more tied to the world I have built myself than ever.’

Sophia looked back towards him. ‘In what way Francis?’

He said nothing, but thought instead of the Court Martial, now looming great upon his own horizon. Should it be a formality and all charges dropped, he would soon be sucked back into the navy’s fine embrace and set upon a ship. Perhaps they would send him South this time, perhaps to some warmer clime. He certainly would not be trusted with any exploration of importance and he would ne’er be given command. To win command he must not only be a unsuccessful leader of an expedition, but an Englishman too.  Otherwise, there was merely the failure.

So it was, that his most likely future was upon some second rate ship, in an unforgiving corner of the world, with the mantle of disgrace about his neck. No crew would e’er trust him again. He would pitch about the ocean forced to earn enough to keep his sisters and no prospect of retirement or of any service worth his time. He would die out there, older, withered, unmissed and be slung unto the ocean with the slop.

And yet that was not the worst of it, for within the Court Martial there lay the very real threat of e’en more than mere disgrace and ignominy. He had a report to write for the affair, as evidence, and he did not know where to begin. He had been unable to speak to James, he knew not in detail what his men believed, or which elements of their voyage James had rehashed into order during his oration.

He had told Francis to speak the truth, to talk only of fact and relinquish ‘folly.’ But the truth so far comprised of fire and murder, two ships abandoned and the lost of a hundred men.  Mix in the Visions and Francis was not sure he could decipher one thing from the next, outline his motives or tell what may clash with James’ own statement. All of his crimes were linked to high punishment but he had ne’er seen a captain lose so many of his crew and two of Her Majesty’s finest ships. It was not beyond being a hanging offence even without the madness that he was accused of.

His mind raced. When he thought back o’er events he knew how it would look, and he was an unpopular choice to command in the first place. An example would be made of him, the Irish dog that he was. Did he even mention Hickey? Would James continue their charade? Given his attitude to Francis’ Visions of late there was no reason he would protect him from an accusation of murder. Good God, the best he could hope for was to be demoted or imprisonment. The worst would be his own death.

He groaned softly and rubbed his brow.

Nancy placed a plate before him.

‘Are you unwell, sir?’ she asked, and a rough hand felt his cheek. For a moment her voice reminded him of his mother, long gone. Would it be such an awful thing, to go home? Maybe he could vanish amongst the fields and meadows if his homeland.

It occurred to him then he had been vanished for the last three years seeking to be found and now he would very much like to disappear once more.

‘It has been a long day,’ Sophia said, ‘Francis you will eat, and we will arrange a room for you. You must stay tonight, not walk back in that blizzard.’

He wanted to protest, but his legs were weary and his belly empty, and in the corner of the kitchen Nancy had begun to sing as she worked. The words floated o’er him familiar and soft and did something to soothe him for old times sake. She sang of the winter and the darkness and the hopeless fear therein, and then of the ray of hope she knew would bloom again in spring.

It was a lullaby.

 

He had stayed in these rooms before, during one of his frequent pursuits of Sophia. He had stared at these very walls and felt the greatest tragedy of his life was her rejection, that there could be no pain worse. Now he noted the fading in the paper, the green pattern on yellow with its blotched and peeling edges and wished the heartache that he felt was as simple as that of a dismissed proposal. Really, he had been so naïve.

He was exhausted, o’er tired and tremulous, each flutter of his muscles rooted deep in his heart. A coil of anxiety twisted his gut and his breath came short. He paced the room, unable to settle despite his fatigue, the quiet of the house around him strange and unwelcoming. Sophia would be asleep by now, the servants in the quarters high above him, the roof nested in snow. Francis glanced at the door but it offered no escape, not from the house which stretch darkly beyond, or from his burden. His future lay unwritten and unsure and all could think of was the past. Mistakes, poor judgements, and the lost warmth of James.

At last he sat upon the bed, tried to quell the jitter of his hands, afraid the growing panic in his chest might rise and tear forth, undoing him. His head throbbed for the first time in days, nausea washed over him, sweat prickled at his neck. He hastily untied his cravat and pulled aside his collar, certain he could not breathe, like he was drowning. Two buttons of his collar down he shrugged away his waistcoat, still part damp from the snow which had leeched through every layer. His shirt clung to his back and he swiped at his forehead, the nausea growing with each breath. Around him the yellowed paper swirled.

Francis dashed for the washbasin and his supper left him with a splatter, floating appallingly half chewed in the cold water. He groaned and clutched at the table until his knuckles whitened, a bead of sweat running from his nose. He thought with shame at what the servants might think as they cleaned the mess, his eyes burning. Francis reached for a towel and dried his face roughly, pushed its body o’er the back of his hot neck, and then draped it o’er the evidence. He raised his eyes to the mirror.

The glass shimmered.

Dark eyes looked back at him, black hair replaced his own.

 

_James touched his chin, turned his face from side to side and played with his countenance. The frown he wore drew lines between his eyes and so after a pause, he softened his brows, arched them to a fashionable height and tried to lift the corners of his eyes. His lips pulled downwards still, but try as he might these would not bend to his will, so straightening their line, he seemed to settle for a set expression. He looked too pale, and thought his cheeks had filled since his return, the shadows of the twilight seemed to hollow them once more. With a dissatisfied noise, he turned from the mirror at last and left the room._

_Crozier followed._

_Through a dimly lit corridor and down a flight of curving stairs, James’ booted heels clicked across marble, but the great hall was deserted. Francis looked about the walls, great portraits hung about the place in gilded frames, but their faces were obscured by darkness. On pretty tables silver glinted in the moonlight which poured in through the door, and James vanished for a moment to the steps beyond. Where’er he was, the house was steeped in extravagance and luxury, and yet no servants lurked about the place. What manner of great home would be so deserted e’en at this late hour?_

_Francis watched his figure cross the drive and then with a lurch it canted right, across the snow covered lawns and on towards a copse of trees. The sky was clear, he saw, and stars picked out James’ path, his footprints solitary in the undisturbed white. Crozier caught him up with ease and glided by his side, unhindered by the cold and damp, as James’ boots made hard work of the ice which clung to his soles._

_‘Best walker in the service,’ Francis said quietly, ‘Now you struggle to cross an English garden under six inches of snow. Do you forget so easily, James?’_

_To his shock James halted mere feet before him and peered around the dark, his breath coming in a slow controlled exhale as he listened. Crozier moved to stand near him, so close the specks of moisture fallen from the trees could be seen to shine upon his cheek, but after a moment James dismissed whatever sound he thought he heard and carried on._

_There was a folly in the grounds. An octagonal build with a pointed roof and two small slit windows to either side of its door. Halting before it, James fumbled in his pocket for a mighty set of keys and in the dim light selected one of ornate iron, his fingertips pale against the black of his gloves. The lock creaked and he seemed to have to bear his weight upon like a ships wheel before it turned. Finally, he entered._

_A flare of light followed quickly on and Crozier stepped through the door. James swung it shut behind him as he lingered on the threshold._

_James was sitting in an armchair by an old wood burning, slowly loading it with logs from a basket to one side. His breath was still a plume of ice and the folly offered little comfort, a tattered rug upon the floor and the scantest of drapes affording privacy o’er the windows. A small table at the centre offered a single tankard and Francis noted a half empty bottle of gin alongside a large flask of unopened cider and a pair of grey knitted gloves that looked very like a pair he had lost upon the_ Enterprise _. Surely they were not his?  He frowned and looked again at the drink, gin had e’er been James’s tipple, but the cider was new. Crozier bent to scrutinise the label. It was brewed in Hertfordshire._

_Ah, so this now, was James’ home. Perhaps he had returned after the gala._

_Finished stoking his fire, James pulled off his fingerless gloves and dumped them on the table atop of Francis’. He reached now for the gin and sloshed a large measure into the tankard. Crozier waited as he took a slug and settled back into the chair._

_‘So, Francis,’ he said suddenly and when he did his eyes looked straight towards Crozier. ‘It is but days until the Court Martial now, I wonder how you fare.’_

_Francis looked about him quickly, glancing at his hands which as always to him amidst a vision seemed solid enough. He remembered the touch upon Ross’s arm which the man had seemed to feel, the whisper of his words into his ears as he directed him to look South. Had these Visions now become so real as to allow another to see his ghost?_

_‘I’m sorry I have been away so long,’ James was saying, ‘You may doubt me but I loathe to be in London now. The Gala was a necessary evil, a show, and as good a time as any to spin those tales, with so many of the admiralty in attendance. I hope they will prove useful.’_

_His dark eyes came to rest upon Francis’s face._

_‘I don’t suppose you heard them? It might have been helpful to set straight our story, as we cannot speak directly…. But I did not see you in the audience… you seemed to spend the best part of the evening in the lobby…’  he chuckled, ‘You ne’er change,’ and then his face fell. ‘Of course perhaps, I did not exactly make you feel welcome. You must believe, Francis, there is nothing more I wish to do than talk to you now…’_

_James leaned back his head and stared at the ceiling. ‘Just a few more days, Francis, just a few more… perhaps then….’ He sighed. ‘Why then you will be even less inclined to entertain my apology.’_

_‘James,’ Crozier tried._

_‘You must think me such an awful man,’ James, ‘And I would not blame you for it. I have said some dreadful things, I have hurt you horribly and betrayed all that we were.’_

_James rose and crossed almost to where Francis now stood, so that his face was a mere breath away. Crozier watched him, noticed the fatigue beneath his eyes, the mask he had so carefully applied in his room, now slipped and fallen. He was the image of the man he’d known upon the ice, the tiny flame within all but extinguished, but present he saw, nonetheless, since the day Crozier had returned to him with aid. Francis raised one hand and for a second brushed it softly o’er James’ hair, down the hollow of his cheek, so close he could almost feel the warmth from his skin._

_‘This separation has been worse than I e’er expected,’ James said, ‘I thought it would be a brief and necessary thing, that I would act my part and good intent would guide me through it.  Sir James and I agreed it must be done, knowing what might happen if we did not act… and in truth that did much to lessen my initial doubts but now… God the thought of you alone upon that ship…’_

_His brow knit in anguish. He took a gulp of gin._

_‘ I know how you get when you wallow in your guilt with none to talk sense into your ear…  I hope at least that Jopson was some comfort when I sent him to you… I miss the lad. I was so grateful for his reports but now I do not have e’en that. You are lost to me entirely and I begin to imagine I will ne’er have you back. Christ this is so hard!’ James exclaimed._

_So, Francis realised,  there was more to this than James’ betrayal alone. Ross had taken his part and Jopson was corrupted to his ends. And yet Crozier could not doubt the lad’s intentions, he would ne’er participate in anything that would harm Francis; so by association, did that not mean that James’s own intentions were pure?_

_His head throbbed and the scene shimmered, but he clung on._

_‘I suppose you will only come to hate me more by Monday,’ James said miserably, ‘E’en if now you could find it in your heart to forgive my cursed actions, by then you will forsake me utterly.’_

_The world flexed as suddenly James stepped through Crozier, with such a wave of palpable heartache that it threatened to outdo Francis’s own aching chest. Crozier turned and watched as James gazed up and placed his hand upon the painting on the wall._

_‘Know this above all else, I do it to protect you,’ James said, his fingers tracing the line of the portrait’s jaw and hovering o’er the cleft of its chin, ‘I do it to keep you safe, and e’en if means I will ne’er hold you again, it is worth it, so you might live, and live well. I wish that you might see that, and forgive me for it, for I love you still, but… e’en if you cannot… ’_

_A tear tracked down his cheek and he seemed to wrench himself away, swiping at his face with his sleeve and turning back to his chair._

_‘I do this to protect you,’ he said roughly, like a mantra to himself, ‘I do this for a promise I once made, to keep you safe, to love you without condition; it may seem that I am cruel to make you suffer, and it is hard to be the one to inflict such pain upon the thing he loves, but you can trust me now as much as ever, Francis, and no matter what this does to me, or what it may do to_ us _…. I will not let you down.’_

_James raised the glass in toast to Francis’s portrait, hanging like a ghost behind Crozier’s unseen face._

_‘To you, my love,’ he said._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a whole lot of artistic licence here regarding Croziers family (who did largely consist of unmarried older sisters and did need to be looked after to some extent by him after his parents went bankrupt and died, but who probably didn't have such a terrible time in the famine as they were in the North and reasonably respectable.. but on the other hand it did effect just about everyone at some point at precisely the time Crozier was away with Franklin and help was not exactly forthcoming for the Irish from the rather disinterested English establishment). Anyway yes historical accuracy... forgive me. Its roughtly in the right area.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Court Martial day part one... Boom!  
> Crozier gets a grilling, James intentions are shown at last but as ever... he's probably messed it up and just made everything worse. The boy is putty when Francis is in the room and Francis as ever is kindness and empathy itself even when he's being screwed over.

A court house in all but name, the Admiralty building, its gold insignia gleaming dully in the pale winter sun, looming high above him, pillared and crested in limestone. Monday had come at last and with it such a numbing of his soul that when Francis Crozier finally reached the steps he had almost come to accept whate’er his destination might be. He was burned out of all anguish now, there was nothing left to feel.

Save the memory that haunted him today. He could not shake the image of James from the vision. It had left him with the knowledge of two things. The first that whatever the outcome of today, it would be bad, and the second the certainty that James suffered, that all was not as it seemed, and that the man was about to do something foolish.

At least, so it was if the vision was true. As ever with his Sight Francis fretted that his imagination had cast up hopeful dreams. Was it not natural for a lover to pine for his lost love and imagine him doing the same. Would it not be understandable if in some feeble attempt to reconcile his pain, Francis has invented a reality wherein the hitherto callous Fitzjames was racked with remorse. 

It would all be revealed, and soon, he realised as he climbed the steps. He asked only for a sign, in life and not a dream, that James remained true.

Inside the hall was a bustle of familiar faces, standing in groups or seated by the walls. He would not be permitted to speak with any, for they came to bear evidence and to judge, and all proceedings must be held behind the closed doors of the council room above. Francis’ eyes followed the marble stairs to the waiting oak divide and imagined the men behind the panels. A body of heroes who had not seen sea themselves for years, nay decades, and most of whom who had not trod the ice at all. They would judge him on procedure and on regulation and he had all but abandoned both in a fitful attempt to live, but rules were all that mattered and by them he would surely be condemned.

Crozier felt the eyes of the hall turn upon him as he waited, with sly glance and then averted gaze. What a novelty he had become, and for the worst of reasons. As he stood he felt sure that every ghost of each man lost now flanked his side, gaunt and rotted, such was the stricken look upon the faces of the gathered. Well they may stare, he probably would have too, had an artic veteran returned half dead without his crew. He decided to sit by the wall, and close to the exit, where the cold air might lend him some relief.

Two men stood and left when he did.

Crozier puffed air through his lips and leaned forward to study the marble floor and the polish of his boots, but a thunk by his side made him start, quickly followed by a clatter as the ornate chair to his right scraped and banged against he wall with the heft of the person landing within it.

‘Alright, Frank,’ Blanky said and stretched out his new peg leg awkwardly. It was both calf and knee and thigh now, attached somewhere but inches down from the man’s pelvis. His blues were tucked around the stump and shoved within the cup and various leather straps kept him bound to the thing, but it was a cumbersome implement and for sure Thomas would not see service again. Francis winced, at once pleased to see a friendly face and desperate to urge him gone.

‘What are you doing? Go away!’ he hissed.

‘Thar’s charming,’ Blanky drawled and began stuffing his pipe with tobacco. Crozier noted his bright and freshly knit fingerless red gloves. Esther he supposed. As least someone was looking after the old loon.

‘You can’t be seen with me!’ Francis said urgently, ‘You are to give evidence.’

‘Can’t an auld sea dog tak the weight off his peg? Them stairs were a horror,’ Thomas nodded to the door, ‘I daresay I need a rest before I attempt the next set.’

Crozier smirked, ‘Fine, I’m buggered anyway,’ he said. ‘Talk on.’

Blanky pursed his lips. ‘You don’t know that yet, Frank.’

‘Don’t I.’

‘I told you before, I’ve got your back,’ Thomas squashed the contents of the pipe with his thumb.

‘I suspect you may be the only one,’ Francis said.

Blanky lowered his hands and appraised him soundly. ‘Oh ye of little bloody faith. What do you want from this, Frankie? Truly?’

‘Not to be hanged.’

A hard laugh, ‘Christ it’ll not come to that man! Captains have done worse than you and lived to see the day without e’en a drop in pay.’

‘Worse? Worse than this?’

‘All you did was try and keep us safe, and a Captain can’t be hanged for doing his duty.’

 _‘_ He can be hanged for _failing_ to do it, and besides, the Admiralty’s charity extends only _to English_ Captains.’

‘Not this again,’ Thomas chided, ‘Nobody will be a hanging. At worst you’ll be demoted. So think on it… when you walk out of here at t’end o’ day, what do you want?’

‘Its not really down to me is it?’

‘For God’s sake, I’m trying to help you here.’

Francis huffed. ‘I don’t know Thomas, I don’t know what I want.’

‘A promotion? A knighthood? Command? To go back there and finish the job? Or to ne’er set sail again and sit behind a desk all yer days polishing yer buttons? I know! Tae marry that pretty lass o’ Franklin’s and have a dozen ginger kiddies?’

Crozier squinted and then cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘What the bloody hell are you rambling on about?’

‘Yer destiny, man. Where would you have it? You didn’t survive all that just to be told what to do by them lot up the stair? Did ye?’ Thomas scrubbed his beard with his free hand. ‘Think on it, before ye make yer plea, before ye filter white lie from the truth. They have only yer report and what we few say to make their judgement and I’ll warrant after a bit of show about the horror of it all they’ll be straight back on wi’ their own damn plans as usual and none of this will matter.’ He eyed him sharply, ‘But _you_ matter, Francis, you and what time is left tae ye. So think… what do you want?’

‘What do I want?’ he asked.

‘Aye, Francis, isn’t it about time ye got a say in that?’ Thomas looked at him earnestly.

Crozier regarded him levelly. A few days before a litany of possibilities might have filled his mind; hopes for forgiveness, recognition, a sense of justice, the understanding and respect of the good and great, underlined by the more pedestrian requirements of a salary and lodgings, the ability to live with his own guilt and the vain hope of a sense of peace. But for now, only one thing came to him.

 ‘Your gloves,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘I want your gloves.’

‘Are you fucking mad?’

‘Almost certainly, Tom…. Now hand them over.’

 

 

When they finally called him, the little room was quite full. The great oak table heaved with dignitaries and Lords and it occurred to him that every man there was knighted for their service, except him. The realisation, which might have rankled him some years before, brought only a weary sigh to his lips. He had no idea as yet which way this travesty would pitch, but he did not see a knighthood in the offing.

Crozier counted his allies, or at least those who when they had last met in these circumstances had not been overtly against him. Sir John and James Ross sat upon the committee but were vastly outnumbered but along the walls he spied Blanky, taking great joy in obstructing the path of admiralty with his leg.  Irving and Little were present as the last surviving command from the ships, and Jopson, in full lieutenants’ uniform. No mere steward now, the lad had an actual voice. Francis thought of the vision and wondered just what he would say.

They bid him sit alone at the very end of the table, at its head, and lay his papers on its glossy surface. From his position he was staring down upon Barrow’s successor, William Baillie-Hamilton, a gentle looking man in his mid forties who had, by all accounts actually been to sea before his appointment as second secretary. To his right Sir James Ross sat studying a report and to his left an empty chair.

The doors banged shut behind him and Baillie called the board to order.

‘As we are all aware,’ he pronounced, ‘Her Majesty’s ships _Erebus_ and _Terror_ set sail under the command of Captain Sir John Franklin, in the spring of 1845 upon a venerable mission to discover the Nor’West Passage.’

There was a quiet rumbling around the table.

‘He was as we have noted Seconded by Captain Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier, in command of _Terror,_ ’ all eyes swung to him, sitting stiffly in the chair, his hands upon his knees beneath the table. ‘And in the case of _Erebus_ , she was commanded by Captain James Fitzjames,’ a small round of ‘hear hear’ followed. ‘These men are now returned to us, though we are deeply saddened by the loss of Sir John, both ships and most tragically, the loss of the greater part of the crew.’

The atmosphere blanched and the congenial mumbles of the gathered fell to silence. Baillie glanced down the table at Francis and quietly held his eye.

‘One hundred and thirty-three men set sail from England. Four were petitioned home sick from Greenland and yet but twenty-four return some three years and six months later.’

Francis kept his gaze steady.

‘This, gentleman,’ Baillie leaned back in his seat, ‘Is the greatest disaster known to us in peace time. The greatest loss of life under our banner and it is our duty to seek answers for such an occurrence.’

Another small round of ‘hear hear.’

‘Captain Crozier, after the death of Sir John you took command of the expedition, did you not?’

‘I did.’

‘And all was well at that point,’ a rustling of papers, ‘The ships had wintered at Beechey the winter of 1845 to 1846?’

‘They had, and we lost three in that time.’

‘To natural causes.’

‘We must assume so,’ Francis said.

‘Then a further winter frozen further South…’ Baillie continued. ‘Would you consider this to be unusual?’

‘Not unusual, but unfortunate,’ Francis said, ‘It would have been preferable if we had turned back. It was suggested.’

‘But Sir John pushed on,’ Baillie said.

‘He tried to, sir,’

‘And rightly so,’ someone said, ‘For what is the sense of explorations if one has not the guts to test the boundaries?’

‘Hear hear,’ several voices chimed. Francis resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He glanced at Blanky, who did it for him.

‘So it was in the spring of 1847 Sir John awaited the thaw.’

‘It never came,’ Francis said. ‘And he was warned of it.’

‘By you.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you claim to have the gift of foresight?’ Baillie smirked. Crozier glowered at him and said nothing. Though his every instinct was to defend himself, he knew some things should not be touched upon.

‘No,’ Francis bit out.

Baillie again regarded him steadily, his pale fingers holding his notes by the very edges of their papers.

‘No. Indeed,’ he said. ‘So it was around this point, you lost Sir John.’

Crozier tried very hard to think only of the fact. The knowledge that Sir John was dead and that he had vanished from command that summer day. Not about the sound of shouting or of screams and gunfire. Not about the roar of the Beast as it dragged him forth along the ice. Think only of the fact, Francis. And don’t mention the bloody visions.

‘June 11th, I believe,’ Crozier said.

‘How?’

‘A tragic accident.’

Don’t mention the bloody _Tuunbaq_ either.

‘Have you detailed this in your report?’ Baillie asked and nodded towards the papers by Francis.

‘You will forgive me if I do not describe the thing in detail, sir, ‘ Crozier said, ‘It was a rather distressing time for all. I would not wish such imagery to reach Lady Franklins ears. It was a bear, sir.’

A satisfied nod, then, ‘You know, your report should have been with us last week, Captain. Were you delayed reaching London?’

He took a breath, considered his options. ‘No, sir, he said at last, but rather I find I would appreciate the chance to answer your questions in person.’

‘Very well, though it be unconventional.’ A number of self-satisfied chortles from the watching dignitaries. Crozier had e’er been unconventional. He swallowed his anger.

There was a rush of air as the door behind Francis opened and the thud of oak as it swung shut. Baillie looked up.

‘Ah, Sir James, I am glad that you could join us,’ but Crozier already knew from the sound of his step who it was, he kept his eyes low, his hands still upon his knees and tried to breath away the heat which flamed across his cheeks.

‘Admiral,’ Fitzjames acknowledged.

‘Come, we have saved you a seat upon the board,’ Baillie gestured for him to join his favoured crew and with a sweep James strode the length of the table to reach his side. He dropped his cocked hat upon the papers with a practiced nonchalance and smiled widely at the ensemble, clapping one on the back as he pulled away the chair to sit. He was of course, resplendent and composed, greeting his comrades easily with an air of satisfaction.

Crozier leaned forward, rested his arms upon the table, lifted one hand to his face. Baillie caught the flash of colour.

‘Those are not regulation gloves, Captain Crozier, please remove them, this is a formal setting.’

Francis glanced at his hand innocently and then up at James who had frozen in his pose, his fingers resting upon the back of his chair. His eyes flicked to the gloves and then to Francis’ face. Subtly his own hand hovered o’er the breast of his jacket, where Francis knew within from his own uniform, a deep pocket lay. Their gaze locked for just a moment.

It was enough. The finely rendered glaze of James’ gaze shattered.

‘Forgive me,’ Francis said, ‘They are borrowed, mine own have been lost somewhere… upon the ice, no doubt.’ He peeled them off, never taking his eyes from James, and before him the man paled.

Baillie turned and looked up, ‘Be seated, James, let us proceed. Your statement here would be read aloud, such eloquence should not be wasted.’

A nervous glance and when James brought his brown eyes back to Francis, Crozier saw the tendons of his hands tighten around the bar of the chair back.

‘Captain Crozier, continue,’ Baillie said, abandoning Fitzjames to position his own self in time. ‘You took command on June 11th and what was your first action?’

‘To send a party to find rescue, sir.’

‘How so?’

‘Because we were to spend a third winter in the pack.’

‘But the ship was provisioned for five years, was it not?’

‘So they said… in reality it was more like three… with ongoing losses.’

‘Still, provisions can be rationed, and supplemented with game?’

‘There was no game to be had sir.’

‘Really, Crozier, I had head tell of your melancholy outlook but you speak like the very potent of doom. The ship was well stocked, Captain Fitzjames writes of it in detail, he ordered the provisions himself when he took command in dock.’

Francis glanced at James who still hovered by Baillie’s side.

‘Well… stocked…’ Crozier said.

‘Five years worth,’ Balliie said. ‘Sit down Captain Fitzjames!’ he snapped and James sat at last, sagging into his chair.

‘The provisions were sullied, sir, and later there was evidence of contamination…’ Francis continued.

‘Ah,’ Baillie said smoothly, ‘And here it begins…’

Francis raised his eyebrows, ‘Here what begins?’

‘The paranoia of which Fitzjames speaks.’

‘The _what_ …?’

‘It is well documented, Captain, that during this voyage you were… afflicted…’ Baillie said patiently, ‘With increasing signs of mental instability, beginning with paranoia, exacerbated by drink and finally resulting in an illness as florid as any lunatic within the asylum, and here… here we see the seed of that sickness. There was nothing wrong with the tins, Captain.’

Francis looked at James Ross who averted his pale blue eyes quickly. He who had told him of the problems with supplies from Goldners, the soured meats and inedible soups, the disease contained within from poor seals and lead. They were they very reason Ross had sought him, for he had feared his friend might starve.

‘Our doctor…’ Francis began.

‘Mr Goodsir?’

‘Yes!’

‘A mere anatomist. Hardly qualified to cast such aspersions upon the supplies commandeered by her Majesty’s Navy, by the then  Commander Fitzjames who we can all agree is a man of superior taste!’ Here laughter peppered the room. ‘We pride ourselves in the quality of our provisions. There was nothing wrong with the tins.’

‘I did not imagine this!’ Francis objected.

Baillie stared him down. ‘I would say your memory is not the most reliable, Captain.’

‘There are those here who will collaborate!’

‘They will have their allotted slot, Captain, and have made their reports, but for now… the ice did not thaw, and winter came?’

‘Yes.’ Crozier seethed.

‘And then?’

‘And then… come the new year…’

‘Before that.’

‘Before what?’ he snapped irritably.

‘Before the fire. What was it called? Carnivale? A capital idea, by the way, from your admirable second, a morale raising festival of hope.’

‘It was a bloody disaster,’ Francis said. James coloured.

 ‘But that was an accident I am sure of it,’ Baillie syruped, ‘high spirited men with grog on board, naked flame and dry tinder. Accidents can happen, Captain and though the losses tragic, I cannot condemn a crew for trying to distract themselves in a tradition and approved fashion, from the evident misery under which they were held upon those ships.’ The tone of accusation grew with every syllable. ‘Under your lurching, inebriated command…. _Captain_.’

Francis swallowed. He narrowed his eyes.

‘Tell me about the drink,’ Baillie said smugly.

Francis looked at the ceiling.

‘I admit it had taken control of me then, my behaviour was…’

‘I hear you assaulted your second,’ Baillie said, ‘And flew into a drunken rage within your cabin, cursed your lieutenants, gave inappropriate orders for unnecessary tasks, inflicted brutal punishment upon members of the crew, ordered one at least to be punished, without need,  like a _boy…_ ’ there was an intake of breath. ‘These were good men, Captain, according to my reports, good men who tried to use their initiative in difficult circumstances.’

Crozier gaped. ‘Those men broke more than a dozen regulations between them!’

‘And duties ought to have been assigned but it seems clear to me your taste for cruelty o’errode your sense and loosened by your appetite for spirits, you made a spectacle of the whole distasteful debacle.’

‘Have you seen the consequence of mutiny?’ Crozier growled, ‘Such insubordination must be crushed without delay. Those men disobeyed my every command, placed themselves and the crew at risk, showed disrespect…’

‘To you?’

‘To her! To the Esquimaux girl they kidnapped.’

‘Ah, the Esquimaux, a good source of game, no? Some local knowledge. Innovative of them men I think?’

‘Innovative? To capture a terrified girl and haul her through the darkness bound in rope aboard a ship full of hungry men?’

‘She was a savage and yet you speak as though she were some delicate girl in her first season whose purity must be cherished! The men did not deserve the lash. That, Captain was a symptom of your sickness, and that sickness is a theme is it not? Throughout this voyage?’

‘If you must know, I relinquished the drink, Lieutenant Jopson tended to me,’ Francis ground out the words towards the desk.

‘Indeed, his testimony confirms as much,’ Baillie said coolly.  ‘You were lucky to survive, it seems.’

A curt nod from Francis, ‘I am very grateful to him,’ he said. He looked to Jopson and saw only kindness. He remembered again, the vision and the part that he had played.

‘But the lingering effects of drink can poison a man for years to come,’ Baillie persisted, ‘and under the strain of command this can only become more noticeable. You may have been t-total, captain, but your decisions have remained questionable.’

Crozier sighed, aware now of the direction this would lead. ‘Which decisions?’

‘Your decision to march North?’

Francis flicked his eyes to him incredulously. ‘We were rescued were we not?’ he asked.

‘Not before one hundred men died, Captain,’ Baillie said quietly.

‘And if we had marched South? Do you try to tell me now we would fare better?’ Crozier said.

‘To game? To the Hudson Company? To many a fort doted by a coastline and to civilisation beyond?’ Baillie said. ‘A shorter distance by far than the one which you proposed.’

‘But further than what we actually walked by the end and we were barely standing by the time! Ross found us six hundred miles from the ships. It was eight hundred at least to Hudson. We would not have made it South.’

‘South was the sensible option.’

‘I cannot believe you are punishing me for finding rescue.’

‘Too late. You found it too late.’

‘No!’ Francis’s fist slammed upon the table, ‘Too late and none of us would be sitting here now, the faces of my crew which line this room would be stripped of flesh and beaching in the sun!’

There was a horrified gasp. At the end of the table James Fitzjames flinched. Enough, enough of this fiasco, of this judgement wrought by those whose feet had ne’er trod those shores. To hell with the Admiralty!

‘How dare you,’ Francis spat into the silence, keeping argument at bay with the power of his glare. ‘How dare you judge when you were not even there. When the weight of their lives did not rest upon your shoulders but on mine! I went North in good faith. Ships pass within the Sound and if there was rescue it would be there that they would start to look. I took a chance and praise God it paid for some. If you think I do not regret and mourn those men who did not make it, then you are mistaken, for they are with me every moment of each day, but for those who did survive I am grateful. I will take it. For they are twenty-four fewer families to whom I must write my sorrow and condolence.  I am guilty of much, and drink amongst it, but you will not twist this tale while I still breathe. The decisions I made were for the benefit of all and I stand by them!’

He finished, sat back into his chair, an odd sense of calm falling over him. He thought of James upon the _Enterprise_.

_‘Twenty-four men out of one hundred and twenty-nine,’ James said steadily, ‘Twenty-four men return now to their families while the rest lay dead. And you ask me if I think you are a terrible first?_

Crozier looked at him now, at the distressed set of his jaw and ghostly pallor and he knew at last his words held a different meaning from hurt alone. He was playing a game, he saw, and one whose end was still unclear, but James did not condemn him, his instinct was to give him comfort and despite his greatest efforts to appear aloof, it still leeched through.

Stop thinking only of the dead, for the dead are lost and gone. Francis counted handful of the twenty-four who made it back and realised for perhaps the first time; they were alive. They were home. They were reunited with their families and all that they held dear. He had fought for every one of his crew, and they had each fought just as hard and these were the survivors. Lord knew he would have saved them all if he could have, but he could not. Now was time to mourn the dead, but also celebrate the living.

‘You stand by your decisions?’ Baillie asked incredulously.

‘I do.’

‘You abandoned two of her Majesty’s ships while they were still provisioned, you marched your men North ostensibly away from rescue and stumbled upon James Ross, you fell victim of mutiny, your behaviour is described here,’ he checked his notes ‘as both erratic and bizarre, the culmination of many years of drink and a feeble mind unsuited to command,’’ he raised his eyes and challenged Crozier. ‘The ships doctors aboard _Enterprise_ , I believe? Isn’t that right Fitzjames?’

Francis looked quickly at James.

‘Yes…’ he said quietly, his resolve faltering.

‘You consulted them I believe?’

‘I did… I had concerns… ’

‘About your Captain’s behaviour?’

‘Yes… ‘

‘For it had long been perplexing had it not?’

James glanced up caught Francis eye and looked away again. ‘He had been… troubled… for some time. Uncertain in his direction and decision, he slept poorly, complained of headache and of nausea.’

‘We all did James, for God’s sake the scurvy had us!’ Francis said.

‘But you believed it more than that?’ Baillie prompted, ‘As you write in your report. ‘A madness’ I think you termed it, ‘A deep seated unbalance of the mind’ you speak of raving?’

‘I am no doctor.’

‘No, but you knew the man well. In your account you make it clear you had been tormented by him, publicly, with impropriety and rudeness, when drunk and when sober.’ Behind him Little and Irving nodded quietly, ‘He was an argumentative and sullen man who persecuted you from the very first day, eventually so consumed with drink he struck you, hard upon the jaw in a fit of pique as no respectful officer would ever consider doing. He overruled your every suggestion upon those ships and from what I read between the lines considered you both an imbecile and a fraud.’

‘That is very much, how I felt,’ James said. He glanced up, ‘At times,’ he added.

‘And so, when it was that the time came for you to leave those ships….’

‘I knew we had to march, for there was truly no sign of thaw.’

‘But you did not trust his command,’ Baillie read. ‘You felt he led you upon a whim to your very deaths.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Francis breathed.

‘You feared him perhaps,’ Baillie coaxed. ‘A powerful man, physically strong, laced with drink and Irish temper? You had all witnessed his acts of cruelty. How much more unhinged could he become? You write ‘ Francis’s madness plagued him. I tried to smooth the waters, to reassure the men, I tried to keep the Captain calm and well and shoulder responsibility as much as I could. I knew that he was vital to our progress but…’’

Baillie continued reading James’ report. A litany of accusation and of twisted truths and motives. James shrank within his chair and an image came to Crozier of the man warm beneath him in the sleeping sack, his lips against his ear and a soft laugh breathy on Francis’ neck. Feared him. Feared him indeed.

‘The greatest abomination came when he abandoned his own crew an went on alone. Desertion in its very worst form. You write ‘I watched him leave in disbelief, certain he would not return, we were without our Captain and as such, without hope.’ Without hope, gentleman. Without _hope_.’ Baillie let the moment hang.

‘His actions have led you to suggest he be medically dismissed from all command and pensioned from the Navy,’ Baillie concluded at last. ‘The doctors who examined him are in agreement. A later blow upon the head while running from a bear… which I note you slew despite your own injuries… has only compounded his sickness, made him volatile and unreliable, unsuitable for command.’

Francis watched James squirm under his gaze. So that was his clumsy unwise plan. He would declare Francis ill, excuse all his inexplicable leaps of faith in doing so, and list enough evidence to have Francis medically retired. The result, he would ne’er set to sea again. What better way to keep him safe, than keep him out of service? Place him on a pension and ensure he ne’er returned to the ice?

Crozier wet his lips, oh James, you stubborn fool. He should hate him for his gauche attempts to have Francis believe him cruel, for the bitter words he had uttered in the ships berth that last day, for the accusations his report now made, but as he looked upon James’ face all he saw was desperation. And had he not seen that before, on the day that he left camp and trudged the last miles North to find rescue?  Had he not seen then the light fade from James’ eyes?

_You could have died, Francis._

What lengths had he gone to with Ross and Jopson? Plotting with one while sending the other to watch o’er him in his place. To persuade the _Enterprise_ medics of his madness e’en when he had clung to his Visions in hope? To bend the ears of the crew so they might believe Francis was sick and not cursed. To protect at least some of his reputation through the veil of illness? To cover the murder of Hickey? To distract those who remembered the worst with tales of great and marvellous deeds? To lift the mantle of responsibility, spin the stories, play the hero, speak at Galas, face the public, answer questions and defend his beleaguered expedition while Francis hid away and mourned his own sorry plight. He knew that Francis would wish to disappear, and he had let him, but oh, Francis had never wished for James to vanish from his grasp.

Crozier waited for a pause in Baillie’s condemnation.

‘I do not deserve this,’ he said, but his tone was not one of anger or of protest. It was of gratitude and kindness. Of understanding. Slowly James raised his eyes to meet him.

‘I would be inclined to agree,’ Baillie said and there was a ruffle of papers and hushed voices. Though the doctors and Fitzjames believe you have been unwell, I do not believe that even sick a Captain would shirk his duty so entirely. There is cowardice in your nature, Crozier, cowardice and discontent. You have e’er felt we have lacked respect for you and in that place, upon the ice, you jettisoned your loyalty to the Navy you felt had wronged you and sought only your own welfare. You abandoned your crew, your ships, your duties and these are as serious offenses as I can tender. You, Captain, deserve a far greater rebuke than a medical pension and a quiet retirement. There are lives upon your head, and £50,000 of her Majesty’s budget.’

Francis looked at him quietly.

‘What then do you suggest?’ he asked.

Baillie’s smile, in his gentle little face, was stiff and cruel.

 

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Court Martial Part 2  
> I actually made myself cry... I don't know if that's good or bad...  
> Thank you for all the lovely comments I've not had a chance to reply to this week, I will get there, they all mean a lot.

When an English Captain abandons his ship, there is always punishment. Except on those occasions where the abandonment is judged necessary by his peers and then, it is hailed a victory. When an English Captain hauls his dying men across the arctic wastes he is deemed a hero, no matter how many of those men may die. He returns to fanfare and a knighthood, to tours and talks and celebration. He publishes his memoirs. He becomes a public figure, receives promotion and a comfortable desk job, and makes it his purpose to send out other English Captains to the fray of Discovery. When an English Captain runs his ship aground or sinks it in the depths of a frozen ocean, his debt is written off, his mistakes forgiven.

English Captains do not hang. For they commit no misconduct in the eyes of naval law.

Crozier stood upon the steps of the Admiralty and watched the weak December sun slide from the horizon. He was not an English Captain. He was not even a Captain any more.

As he waited for his escort to where’er his future led, he unrolled again the paper upon which was writ his crimes. The words jumped out from paragraphs of accusation in neat calligraphy. Baillie had prepared, long before the court martial it seemed, and long before any of Crozier’s men could leap to his defence and thus when the time came to announce his sentence, he had only to hand the paper forward with a flourish, certain of its reception. Desertion and abandonment, negligence of duty, the loss of two fine ships, drunkenness, abuse of his command, cruelty, the list went on. There could be no argument amongst the ranks, for such heinous criminalities there could be but one outcome, for almost all were hanging offenses in themselves, were they not?

Well yes. For common Irishmen like him.

Francis rolled the paper and tucked it in his jacket, unbuttoning the stifling thing as he did so and breathing cold clear air. He hitched the blue fabric of his trousers and sat upon the step, for all there was to now was to wait. So wait he would. The tide would give and it would take and he floated here upon it.

It occurred to him that for the first time in his long career and longer life, his destiny was no longer in his hands, and yet, it had never been more his. Though the words of the Board still rang hotly in his ears there was a stillness in his heart for now at least. No doubt he would be troubled, no doubt he would feel fear, but that moment was still to come. Here on the steps, in the winter sunset, there was only an exhausted kind of peace.

It was over.

 

‘This is outrageous!’ The minute’s stunned silence after Crozier’s fate was revealed, was broken by Sir John Ross, whose tall and distinguished figure had remained mute throughout the trial. ‘There is no precedent for this!’

‘Then we set a precedent… _now_ ,’ Baillie returned coldly.

‘No Captain has ‘e’er been hanged for his misfortune upon the Ice!’

‘This goes beyond misfortune,’ Baillie said, ‘This is not ill luck…’

‘That is _exactly_ what it is!’ James Ross spat at him, rousing his blue eyes at last from the table where he had been resolutely avoiding Francis’ gaze for the last hour at least. ‘There are many of us… many of us around this table now, who have been to these places and barely returned were it not for fortune. Were it not… in some of our cases… for the very man you would now hang! Have you forgotten his role upon the _Enterprise_ as we voyaged home? If it were not for him my own crew would have died!’

‘If it were not for him you would not have needed to leave retirement, Sir James,’ Baillie said smugly. Ross’s eyes blazed.

‘We have all needed rescue at some time,’ he said, ‘If Sir John Franklin had bothered to make plans for it in the first place Francis would never have been in this position.’

‘Hear, hear,’ his uncle chimed.

‘We do not judge Sir John…’ Baillie said stiffly.

‘No, but if we are to rightly judge Francis we must take that man’s errors into consideration!’

‘Enough!’ Baillie’s small pale hand slammed hard upon the table. ‘The decision has been made.’

‘By whom?’ Sir John Ross queried and glared at him with all the command of his age and wisdom. ‘By you and you alone? You forget yourself man, you are but one man aboard a council of others. A counsel of _sailors_ , and while you may have set to sea yourself I’ll warrant you have ne’er spent a winter on the ice?  Half starved? Desperate? _Sick_? The man was ill, William!’

‘It does not excuse his actions.’

Sir John scowled at him from under thick brows. ‘While I cannot condone some of Francis’ more wayward decisions I can certainly put myself in his place, I can see why he might have made them. And if, as Fitzjames describes, he was unwell… with the strain of it, with the scurvy, with whate’er else afflicted him…’

‘Drink,’ someone interjected.

‘He would not be the first in command to succumb to that,’ Ross senior snapped back. ‘I do not excuse it and I see that some courses of action could have been better planned, but medical retirement is the humane option here and I support it. Drink, or sickness is not a reason to be hanged at dawn by men who once called themselves your friends!’

‘Not alone,’ Ballie conceded, ‘But the litany of misdemeanour would justify…’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ there was a scrabbling from the corner of the room and Blanky heaved himself up upon his peg. ‘This is a bloody nonsense! Such a room of great and goodly Lords and not one of you can speak sense!’

There was an outraged mumbling amongst the occupants of the table. Sir John Ross raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

‘Well apart from you, sir,’ Blanky said, ‘Getting carried away with all this….’  he grimaced and shifted on his leg, ‘Stupid sodding …’

‘Your point, Mr Blankly,’ Sir John said with the barest hint of a smile. Beside him his nephew repressed a tired laugh though whether from genuine amusement or rising hysteria at the urgency of Francis’ plight it was increasingly hard to tell.

‘You would have him hanged,’ Blanky addressed Baillie. ‘And yet I’ll wager each one amongst you have committed the same crimes, to greater or lesser extent,’ amidst horrified gasps he plunged on, voice rising, ‘Oh, innocent are you? Never lost a ship, never lost men?  Never limped back into dock with a failed expedition behind you? Eaten yer bloody boots and barely survived the winter?  I’ll bet there were a few who in their darkest moments considered legging it, abandoning all in the hope they might make it, who felt the breath of mutiny amongst their men against their sweaty necks, who put it down with cruelty out of fear.’

There was silence.

‘You were all of you just seconds away from where our Francis sits now,’ Blanky said, ‘If it weren’t for luck alone. Don’t come the high and mighty with me… for I was there as witness, and not just to him neither…’

He held Sir John Ross’s eye and to Francis’ surprise the man nodded slightly, an agreement to continue, where’er this monologue may lead.

 ‘A lot goes on in ships…’ Blanky said quietly as he eyed each man, ‘A lot does not get said, ain’t scribbled in the margins of yer logs or writ in fine letters home.  A lot is ne’er spoken of when you do make it back, not told in lectures nor whispered amongst yer pals in fancy drawing rooms. For there is shame to it, shame in yer own thoughts and motives, shame in yer impulses. A ship becomes a prison when its trapped upon the ice, but the greatest torment is in yer head. A lot goes on in the darkness of your own mind that you would ne’er confess to and I’ll hazard you see in Francis what you saw within yerselves, a darkness, a desperation that would have made you break all the rules had you found the courage to do it. And he had courage. He had that in spades.’

Francis held his eye for a moment. Blanky flushed.

‘He is not innocent,’ Blanky said again addressing the room, ‘He will tell you that himself. He made mistakes, he wallowed in his misery and pity fer long enough and vice almost ended him. He was bitter and he spoke to me of leaving… more than once…’

There was a wave of excitement around the table at the mention of Crozier intending to abandon ship. And not only intending but debating it with his Ice Master.  Blanky silenced the rumble with a glower.

‘Ye miss the bloody point again,’ he huffed, ‘So obsessed are you with rules and articles you smell the word ‘abandonment’ and yet you give no thought to _why_. He did not wish to leave from cowardice, at either event. The first time was just before Sir John’s death, and he would have sacrificed his career and his life no doubt to lead a party to find rescue when that man had refused him.  There was nothing wrong in Francis’ judgment, for sometimes great men must do what others shy from. Sometimes great men must make the rules and not be feared to break them and to some that looks like madness, but I tell you now it was sense. I tried to stop him, for his own sake, I tried to go in his place, but I knew that he was right. Sir John delayed… and it cost us.’

‘And when he abandoned Terror camp?’ one man asked. ‘Was that sense?’

‘There was a mutiny and he was ejected. He could have stayed, and the men would have torn themselves apart o’er it, so instead he walked north alone, and found me. Saved my life.’

‘Coincidence.’

‘I don’t care if it was coincidence or not, I was bloody glad to be saved, and besides,’ Blanky growled angrily, ‘You miss the lesson again, you all miss the bloody fact! He might have made some bad decisions, but his motives were pure, always pure. He walked North for the good of his men, to save their wasted energy… and then he went back. He went to seek rescue, but in finding it, if it had been fifty or five hundred miles away, he would always have returned to that camp.’

‘You do not know that,’ Baillie said.

‘I was there,’ James Ross assured, ‘And I know it.’

‘So, do I,’ Fitzjames said quietly.

Baillie rounded upon him, ‘Your statement would suggest otherwise, Captain! You felt abandoned, you said you were certain you would ne’er see him again, that he would not return!’

‘I feared for his life!’ James said suddenly, ‘I feared he would die out there from his injuries and ne’er make it back, not that he no longer cared, not that he would abandon us for his own ends… Christ! Enough, enough of all of this. I retract!’

‘What?’ Baillie all but roared.

‘I retract the bloody statement! I retract it and any accusation therein against this man!’

Francis watched in awe as James’ demeanour shattered before him, revealing all that lay beneath and with each pinched muscle and tight glance, the shadows beneath his eyes became darker, the hollows of his cheeks more pronounced. The ghost of the man Francis had thought he had lost now sat before him, with every pretty glamour wrenched away, and it was as though he looked now at the James upon the ice, half ravaged by the elements, just clinging onto life, despite the warmth and nourishment he had long since reclaimed.  He realised that for James, as it was for him, that place was still as real as any Admiralty, as any rooms he may take, as any manor in the countryside in which he hid his lover’s portrait. The ice was all, for it had not followed him, rather James had never left.

It broke Crozier’s heart to see him thus, exhausted, unhappy, and lost. It broke his heart because in all of this he had sworn he would return James to safety and now here he sat, a shadow, torn and broken and hurting every bit as much as if the wounds upon his chest still bled. Francis watched the pain move in ripples beneath his strained features. The face before him was the James of the mirror.

‘That simply cannot be done!’ Baillie was protesting.

‘Then I add an amendment!’ James countered, ‘For while the basis of fact may be true for the most, I have done Francis a great disservice in ever implying that he was negligent. Troubled, yes, under great and prolonged strain, yes. Sick, probably, for we all were sick and sickness can take many forms in that Hell… but never negligent, in _any_ of his motives. There is no cruelty in this man’s heart and I will not have you speak of him as though he personally led each of his lost crew to their deaths by some great act of manipulation or desire to do ill. They followed him, and willingly, until so half mad from hunger they could not process their own thoughts. That is not his fault, that was the truth of our circumstances and no man here, _not one_ could have done better.’

For a second James’s eyes rested raw upon Crozier and Francis had to look away.

‘Our reports show that at the very least, Captain Fitzjames, you were able to conduct yourself with a great deal more of the dignity becoming to your station,’ Baillie said, ‘And if you, injured and half starved as you were, could continue to do so, then his actions…’

‘Because I had _him_!’ James said, standing suddenly. The papers before him flew as he dashed his statement down upon the table, scattering all else before it.

 ‘I had _him_ as my strength and guide. He who tended my wounds each evening and assured me of our future, whose well of hope ne’er emptied for any of us, though he went without a drop himself. He who suffered silently but whose kindness was absolute throughout, who bathed the foreheads of frightened boys while they lay dying and told them stories to quell their fears as any loving father might. Who sacrificed all that he had himself, who shared it amongst us from the poorest seaman to his fellow captain, who hauled the bloody boats with all of us until bruises bloomed across his wasted body like the sash of the martyr that he was. You have no concept of what he gave, and it is because of him that we had any hope at all, because of him that we now live!’

Steadying his breathing, James turned to look down the table to where Francis sat alone.

‘You do not deserve any of this,’ James said, ‘Not condemnation, nor judgement.  These men,’ he gestured to the remains of _Terror_ and _Erebus_ ’s crew sitting around the room, ’owe you their lives. _I_ owe you my life, and that to me is more important than, articles and regulation or the cost of her Majesty’s ships…’

He glanced up at the most prestigious members of the Board. ‘You should think on that,’ he prompted, ‘For every member of the great British public expects acquittal, as every Captain to date has been forgiven. Every newspaper has sung the praises of the returned heroes, the men here have not had to pay a single drink since their return and I… I have attended every gala and told fine tales to rapt audiences, been invited to every function in high society and e’en to the palace. I have been knighted as a result.’

James quirked his eyebrows proudly in a gesture and that warmed Francis’s heart.

‘I have been busy, and received warmly, and some would say it’s just, but they are fools.’ James said, ‘Was there not more than one Captain on this voyage? Where then is the other while I celebrate? The public have seen no sign of the Expedition leader and we must ask ourselves what the public think o’that? Perhaps he is unwell, they reason, for such awful strain must fray a man’s nerves. Perhaps he will emerge next season to tell his side. Perhaps he is wracked with regret and with mourning, for that would only be natural, and commendable for there is no shame in sorrow.’

James appealed to each man with a flick of his eyes, holding them as attentive as any audience Francis had seen him entertain and yet there was naught but sincerity in his tone.

‘One might say his reaction has been the most humane of us all, and that he could teach us well the proper response to tragedy, open our eyes to our vanity and pride, to the senseless perversion of celebration at such a terrible time. Here is a man who, after saving a vessel from destruction upon the rocks, claims no thanks, but instead writes a hundred letters of sympathy locked alone in his berth while others revel with music and grog. A man who would not let the names of the lost die upon the lips of a town crier, but who wanted each widow to know the valour of her husband, each mother the courage of her son and to share with them their last stories as personally as if he sat with them by their own hearth wiped their tears. You tell me now which of us should be condemned for our morality.’ James looked at Francis softly before drawing himself up to his full height.

‘A people who hear of his deeds by those lettesr will wait patiently for his emergence, so they may thank him. For his courage in bringing the survivors home and his compassion in dealing with the lost. What they do not expect is for the next sign of the commander to be the announcement of his death upon the gallows!’

Fitzjames’ voice boomed off the wooden panels of the room.

 ‘You have gone mad, gentleman. You would hang an arctic veteran for his ill luck upon the ice, for sickness, for misjudgement when there has been not one intention to do harm? When the public are all but enchanted by this tale and in celebration of those who survive? When his men support him?’

He looked quickly behind him, where even Irving was beginning to nod, urged on by Jopson, bright eyed and pink cheeked with passion. ‘You have misjudged, gentleman, there is no place for death here, there has been enough of it, and while you may wish to enact your prejudices and pin blame upon a single man unfortunate enough to fall prey to your biases there is no evidence to suggest that anything other than a ghastly concoction of circumstance led to this disaster and that this man, above all of us, did his utmost to stem that flow of misery at every turn!’

A round of hear hears.

 ‘He will _not_ hang,’ James cried, buoyed up by the force of the support around him, ‘for if he must, then I must too!’

‘Captain Fitzjames!’ Baillie exclaimed.

James fixed Baillie with the kind of hard stare Francis had only received himself on a handful of occasions, Fitzjames’ dark eyed and sculpted, like a thing made from stone, a sneer of utter contempt upon his lips, veiled thinly by proud composure.

‘Well?’ he challenged.

‘If he is not to hang…’ Baillie began.

‘He is not,’ James said clearly and there were a number of grumbles of assent and support around the room.

‘Then his position must be considered.’

‘If you will not medical retire him then demotion is an option, it has been used before,’ James pushed.

‘No,’ Baillie said.

And Francis felt it coming, felt it like the highest waves the earth could send when she had shaken to the core and the sea lagged behind in her destruction, pulled its water from the beaches in readiness and all lay still and empty for a moment. The room was an echoing hollow of distant voices, each object too distant and too near at once, the tall white breaker roaring forth above him, set to wipe him from the world. He breathed, knowing as he counted the last seconds of his exhale, the ground would soon begin to tremble.

‘I would not have him demoted,’ Baillie said, ‘I would have him removed…. Entirely. For regardless of your opinions these are serious matters and a message must be sent, Captain Crozier has a chequered background…’

‘He is a peerless sailor!’ James Ross argued.

‘That is not what he means,’ Fitzjames said coldly, ‘Is it, _sir_?’

Baillie ignored him and pushed himself up to stand. Even as he did so he was at least half a foot shorter than James and crowded by dignitaries on either side, but his sharp little eyes bored direct into Francis.

‘Stand up,’ he hissed.

Francis rose a little stiffly, for the day had been long and there was such a weariness now about him as he watched that wave crash forward. Without thinking he braced his thighs against the table, lest it knock him from his feet.

‘Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier,’ Baillie said, ‘It is my duty to report on the judgement of this court martial on behalf of her Majesty’s Royal Navy and the Board of the Admiralty. Your crimes have been listed, and now it remains for me to give sentence. _Mr_ Crozier,’ he paused to let his title sink in, ‘You are hereby removed from all duties pertaining to the Royal Navy. You will be severed from your position immediately and in accordance with dishonourable discharge you will receive no salary, no pension and no back payment of monies earned.  Your naval rooms are to be relinquished, today…’

 

The words faded. Crozier kept his eyes on the wall behind the little man as Baillie sat, his speech finalised.  Francis’s back was straight to attention as he had been so long drilled to do, but he could feel a tremble in his jaw.  The words were a suffocating weight pressed tight against his lungs but as with all experiences of drowning, his instinct was to breathe, and breathe, and swallow them down though they would be the thing that would stop his very heart. One by one the years of his life were being stripped away with all that he had worked for. His rank, his honour, his command, his pay, his pension, his savings, his possessions, his rooms and shelter…

‘Your epaulettes, Mr Crozier,’ Baillie said. Francis glanced at him, saw him gesture to the table with an open unblemished palm. ‘If you would….’

Of course, Baillie would milk every moment for symbolic ends. With numbed fingertips Francis reached for his left epaulette, fumbled with the clasp, the angle tricky and the catch hard to break. He could feel Baillie’s eyes on him, his tight smile throughout the show. He might be disallowed the ultimate in his preferred punishments but oh, how sweet this must feel, to watch a man’s life crumble before him. To watch him return to his damnable Irish bog.  Francis tried to focus on the clasp, on the moments of his drowning, but through the rushing sound of water there was a scratch of chairs on wood.

A warm hand came to his shoulder and deftly removed his fingers before releasing the clasp Francis had been struggling with. With difficulty for he did not trust his vision through the blurring of his own tears, Crozier looked back to find Jopson’s blue eyes, dark lashes wet against his cheeks as he worked. The lad managed a smile.

‘I’ve got you, sir,’ he said, his free hand on Crozier’s back between his shoulder blades as he reached for the other shoulder. ‘We’ve all got you.’

And when Francis looked back at the table, as Jopson placed the insignia in his hands, he saw that he was not alone, for a pile of gold now sat at its centre, and every man amongst his crew now stood.

Fitzjames stepped forward and with aplomb dropped his own epaulettes atop the pile.

‘Francis,’ he said and waited.

Crozier held the things suspended for a moment, the rough feel of spun gold yarn between his fingers, the glint of the crest in the lamplight of the fading afternoon. He wondered briefly how the Admiralty would react, if such a gesture would lead them to rethink, or reinstate him. They could not surely let go so many good lieutenants and commanders, risk the scandal of their response to Crozier’s dismissal being talked of in the news. He wondered and then he felt his fingers open of their own accord, watched the weight from his shoulders fall softly to a bed of waiting friends. Silently they landed atop those which once belonged to Jopson, and to Little and to James.

Francis let go.

 

He was still sitting on the steps when the sun finally vanished, all but an orange strip behind the buildings to his right. A click of boots told Francis that James had finally made it out the building, and then the scrape of feet upon stone as he cleared a spot to sit by him. It would not do to sit in slush.

Francis smirked.

‘Worried you’ll get wet?’ he asked.

‘No point in getting a chill,’ James gazed about him, ‘Sorry to keep you so long, old chap. All got a bit hairy in there after… well after you waltzed off into the quite literal sunset.’

It was the James of old. They had barely exchanged two words in months, and none since the end of the trial, bar an agreement to meet outside when all was settled, but nothing now seemed altered between them. It was as though James had just popped out of their old shared tent for a moment and returned to discuss the weather. Francis glanced at him, as his familiar profile and hang dog expression and allowed his lips to curve into a natural smile.

 ‘I may not have your flair for the dramatic, James but I felt I should…’

‘Make an exit? Quite right, I do understand…’ he quipped, but the softness of James’s eyes revealed too much. In truth Francis had no option but to leave and had spent a good portion of his time away from the councils committee room trying to quell his tears in the courtyard alone.

It hurt, a goodly portion of it, the damage to his reputation, the accusations of madness, the doubt once good friends had shown in him, on top of all that he had lost, endured and suffered.  Some amends had been made, but four years of strain and hardship now fell from him and his limbs trembled with the release of it all. He felt as though he had hauled a boat alone across a hundred miles of shale only to find it had been empty all the while.

Except it had not been. The person to his left had been within.

Francis yawned, then realised he had nowhere to sleep.

‘The Family Ross talk of a further court martial,’ James was saying, ‘McClintock has leant his support, along with several others.’

‘McClintock?’ Francis said baffled, ‘That old…?’

‘He is your countryman, Francis, I daresay he did not appreciate the attitude on display today.’

‘Hmm.’

‘There are a few in your corner, and many who may be persuaded after that debacle today. It revealed a most unpleasant side of the admiralty… I must say… I owe you an apology there.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well I believe I rather dismissed your notions that being Irish led to some sort of discrimination within our ranks.  Told you you had a bloody great chip on your shoulder…’

‘I’ve nothing at all on my shoulder now,’ Francis said glancing sadly at the place where his epaulettes had been.

James looked horrified. Until Crozier’s lip twitched.

‘You awful bloody man, this is a serious business!’

‘I am aware of that, James, my career is over.’

‘Not the Court Martial, my apology.’

‘Oh, your apology!’ Francis said, ‘Sorry, how rude of me, yes James… your apology, do go on.’

James looked at him with a not insignificant amount of discomfort. ‘Yes well it seems I owe you a multitude of apologies.’

Francis sighed. ‘James had I the energy right now I would list for you every god dammed slight, insult and misconduct you have inflicted upon me since we boarded the _Enterprise_. I would spell out for you each hurtful word in the vain hope it may inflict upon you as much misery as it did me all these months. You have been cruel, you have abused my trust, our intimacy and all that we shared…’

He looked at James who was hunched over his too long legs folded uncomfortably on the shallow steps before him.  He had left his cocked hat behind and now his dark hair fell about his face giving him the look of a petulant girl child caught coveting her sister’s dress. Francis rolled his eyes. Even now, when this most painful of subjects must be discussed, the damn man seemed to summon each strand of resentment from Francis’s body and dispatch it with a single purse of his lips. He should be angry, he should be livid, he should order James supplicate himself in punishment and beg for his friendship until the New Year at least. Until 1855 if he had any sense.

‘There is much I could say,’ Francis said instead, ‘And much that needs be addressed, but…’ he softened his tone, ‘As you defended me in there, I must now defend you… a little,’ he cocked an eyebrow in emphasis as James glanced up through his hair. ‘You did none of this from malice, James, I know that, your intentions, as mine, were always good.’

‘I swear, Francis, all I did…’

‘Was to protect me,’ Francis patted his gloved hand, ‘I know.’

The touch was brief and Crozier slid his fingers away as quick as they made contact. He was not yet at peace with James but he had not the energy to fight about it that night, there were more pressing concerns. He looked out into the street and all was dark.

‘Christ James, I don’t know where to start….’ He breathed. ‘Is Blanky still about? He has an Inn now, perhaps he’d put me up.’

He heard James swallow.

‘I have a house, in Herefordshire,’ he said.

Francis looked at him sideways. ‘I’m not sure that’s wise, James.’

‘For God’s sake, Francis why not? After all I’ve put you through!’

Crozier rubbed his brow, God above he was tired. ‘Because this is not simple, James, because all that you have done, and I have done, we…. There is too much that needs rectifying…’

‘I know you will be angry,’ James said. ‘I know that and accept it. I do not deserve forgiveness, you could have hanged today upon my testimony…’

‘Oh, for God’s sake James, Baillie wanted me hanged long before you tweaked your testimony to have me seem insane!’ something inside Francis had reached capacity and he was wrung out, irritable and snappish. All he wanted was a meal and a warm bed and even that was looking distinctly tricky. He could tolerate no more self-pity from James at this hour, as much as he cursed the bitterness of his own tone. Christ he should be grateful he was not in gaol or dead, but what he would do just to have this day be over, to just be able to sleep. Somewhere distant a church bell rang five. It was not even evening yet. He put his head in his hands.

‘You would have your privacy, Francis,’ James said quietly. ‘For as long as needed. I don’t use many of the rooms but there are enough to open up a full wing should you desire, though I’m rather short on staff.’

‘The place is like a morgue, James, not a soul in sight,’ Francis said. He drew his hands over his face as he sat up and caught James’ eye.

James looked at him curiously and then his face relaxed. ‘Oh,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ Crozier confirmed. ‘I.. um.. saw..’ he waved a hand near is temple.

‘Right, well,’ James said regaining composure, ‘Then you know there is space.  Come. Get away from London, from the Admiralty. Breathe good clean air, eat good food. There is an Orchard, we make our own cider.’

Francis snorted.

‘Ah, perhaps not.’

The slush was leeching through Crozier’s trousers and he shifted his position. He saw James glance down.

‘Shut up,’ Francis said.

‘Are you getting a chill?’

Crozier glared at him in warning. ‘Just….’

James stood a little slowly and stretched out his legs. ‘It is but a few hours drive,’ he said looking down the street, ‘If I hail a carriage we could be there for supper, get the fire going,’ he looked down at his companion. ‘Please, Francis, it’s the least I can do.’ And he held out his hand, just as Francis had done so many times when climbing icy ridges, to haul his friend up upon a peak or navigate him round the most treacherous parts. Crozier looked at James’ outstretched fingers, followed the arm until he reached his face and what he saw there.

He wanted nothing more at that moment that to feel that hand in his again. Francis took it and felt James pull, hoist up his weight to join him. Their fingers laced, they stood still upon the steps, waiting to hail a carriage in the melting snow.

It was nearly gone, Francis noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff incoming... brace yourself for fluff.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis can never just be happy can he? James has to work for this so very hard. Also I'm a tease, I'm sorry, this scene got longer than I anticipated because bloody Francis was being angsty as usual. More soon.

They had stopped in at Crozier’s rooms to allow him to gather his paltry belongings in a naval issue knapsack before continuing their journey North. Francis had blindly slung the offending bag towards the carriage driver’s attendant and then mounted the steps ahead of James, who reaching back had closed the door too with a bang and sealed them within. He sat opposite, encase in a dark wool cape which folded around his legs, and gave him the appearance of a spectre, his pale face suspended above the high collar. They said little now, for fatigue had drained them both, and the noise of cobbles under their wheels was strangely soothing. 

For a while the warm lights of the street lamps cast an orange glow through the two tiny windows to either side of them, flicking in and out of dusk, until finally they rattled out of the city and onto pitch black lanes stretching far into the country. The carriage lanterns swung ahead and behind, insipid in the gloom and above the moon waxed a crescent in the sky, unnaturally bright. Francis’ eyes adjusted quickly, a man used to a life of days in darkness and able to see all the same. He noted stars from habit and watched the bare limbs of trees pass by with monotonous regularity. The snow was still enough to paint the whole world silver and out of the town, nothing stirred.

The trundling motion rocked the carriage as gently as an infant’s crib once it met with dirt track lanes and untouched snow and Francis’ eyes grew heavy as he propped his head against the woven rest behind him. Fingers steepled to his temple he leaned into his hand and tried to let the motion carry him to sleep. He ached with the need for it, his mind a constant stream of broken thought, his consciousness splintered by the events of the day, the year, the voyage. Words floated through his memory, spoken in rebuke, spoken in comfort, spoken at the trial that day and all of them, spoken by James.  Outside there was just silence and the muffled horses’ hooves, but within his own internal commentary, relentless and exhausting. The moment of stillness he had felt on the steps of the Admiralty had passed; the fear was trickling back into his limbs, but his senses were too heavy to make sense of it all now, e’en if he was too restless to do aught but ruminate.

He must have moaned in frustration because he felt James’ hand upon his knee and glanced up.

‘Try to sleep, Francis, it is well over an hour yet ‘til we arrive.’

‘Sleep evades me, there is too much to think on.’

‘That is not for now, there will be time to think tomorrow.’

‘There will be time to think for years on end, James, my future stretches before me empty of all duty.’

He could not read James’ expression or interpret the slight twitch of his lips. His eyes crinkled kindly enough but there was something melancholy there.

‘Is that how you see it? Empty?’ he asked.

Francis sighed and lowered his hand to his lap. He turned his face back to the window and counted trees for a minute.

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted at last, ‘Part of me is just glad that this is over, that we are returned. Part of me…’ he trailed off a moment, ‘Christ, James everything I’ve ever known ahs just been taken from me. My whole career…’

‘You may yet be reinstated,’ James said though he could not hide a flinch of guilt.

Francis snorted. ‘Hmmph. And where will that lead to I wonder… North or South?’

James’ eyes widened. ‘You would not go back?’

‘That is where reinstatement would lead to,’ Francis said, ‘I doubt very much I would ever be given command, but they would be quick to dispatch me as a veteran to complete the bloody passage under someone else,’ he looked up. ‘They might even suggest you…’ he said mischievously but with no real humour.

‘As what?’ James asked astounded.

‘As my First.’

‘Good Christ, Francis! Don’t talk nonsense,’ he sniffed and glanced out the window, ‘Besides I have resigned.’

Francis’s lips quirked, ‘They will reinstate you by Wednesday, James, they cannot lose you.’

‘I may not wish to be reinstated, I may wish to live out my days in blissful retirement.’

‘Retirement? You’re thirty-five man!’

‘I feel considerably older,’ James said drily. ‘And god only knows how old you feel, you’re already decrepit.’

A rush of laughter left Francis.  James cocked at eyebrow at him playfully.

‘Your point?’ Francis managed.

‘My point is you are at a stage where retirement is not only acceptable but preferred. To go back to sea, nay to go back to the poles would be suicide. You have been through enough.’

‘I may not have an option, James.’

‘There is always an option.’

Francis sighed tiredly. ‘Is there? Is there, James? I am fifty-two. I have served nigh on forty years and have nothing to show for it. No savings, no property, no way to support myself on land without a naval pension… which they will not give me unless I go back and prove myself _again_. I would sleep upon a bench in Regents Park if it were only myself as a concern, God knows I’ve been in colder and more disagreeable beds, but I have a blessed witches coven of unmarried sisters in Dublin who need my salary….’

‘Ah…’ James said darkly. Francis squinted at him.

‘What do you mean ‘ah’?’

The image of his portrait locked away in James’ folly floated suddenly through his head. The voice of Sophia’s cook. His family had had some fortune, _of late_ , she said. James shifted in his seat.

‘What have you done?’ Francis asked levelly. ‘And don’t try and deny the damned painting.’

James looked up at him quickly. ‘Jesus that’s… that’s just… _unnerving_ Francis. I suppose you ‘saw’ that as well,’ he sighed at Crozier’s incredulous expression.

‘I may have…’ James started hesitantly, ‘No damn it there’s no shame in caring for the family of a loved one!  I set up a monthly stipend. Anonymously,’ he added somewhat proudly.

‘You did what?’

‘Well obviously I paid for the painting as well…’

Francis gawped at him. ‘And how much did you pay for that?’

‘I’m not telling you,’ James said petulantly.

‘For God’s sake!’

‘It’s priceless,’ James said.

Francis laughed bitterly, ‘To whom? Last thing anyone needs is my ugly face looming o’er their mantle.’

James glared at him. ‘It was a comfort… to me,’ he said curtly.

Francis felt immediately awful.

‘They were in a bad way,’ James reasoned on. ‘The famine has been damnable by all accounts and I am bloody drowning in money, Francis, _drowning_ in it. The house is enormous, the estate with it, the funds. There’s more money there than I would ever need, invest or fritter. It might as well go to good use.’

‘Good use?’

‘I can think of no better. They are your blood Francis, I would not see them sell their every possession or struggle to put food in their mouths and I would not see you end yourself from worry or force yourself back to sea. It is done. The monies are available at the 1st of every month.’

Francis recognised the determined set of his jaw, the imperious way he gazed down his nose and the very slight puff of his chest. Typical bloody James with his impulsive and overly generous tendency of gesture. How in God’s name was he going to pay him back? He swiped his brow at once confounded by the knowledge of a new debt when he had no income and at the same time incredibly touched. He let out a soft but despairing laugh.

‘James, you are kindness itself, but I cannot accept…’

‘It is not for you to accept, it is for them,’ James cut in. ‘I do not need your permission.’

‘They are _my_ family, my responsibility.’

James cast his eyes back in his direction. ‘You really fail to understand this,’ he stated.

‘What?’

‘Why do you push me from you even now?’

‘I… I do no such thing.’

‘Have you heard nothing I have said?’ James asked.

Francis opened his mouth, but his words lodged in his throat with a click. He looked at James in confusion.

‘Christ,’ James said, ‘Must I spell this out for you?’

Francis closed his mouth and James shifted about in his seat once more as though his side of the carriage was riddled with fleas within lumpen straw that stuffed its seats.

‘I have returned to England,’ James said, ‘To discover my brother dead.’

Sorrow hit Francis’s chest like a black wave. ‘Christ, I’m sorry James I was not thinking…’ but an elegant hand waved away his words.

‘He has left me the estate, and the business that comes with it. It is a veritable fortune and I am the sole recipient. Like you, Francis I have spent a considerable chunk of my life at sea, or docked in ports around the world, and while I do not lack for acquaintances in London with whom I could be boarded I find myself,’ he paused, ‘I find I no longer wish to chase after that life, _my_ life, as it was.’

Francis nodded his understanding.

‘I return changed, as I know you do, and I have been away long enough that I have no real commitments here at all, besides the navy, and as we have seen today, I have chosen to dispense with that entirely.’

‘James, that was rash and driven by emotion.’

‘No, it is not rash, Francis , I’ve had three years on the ice to consider my life in excruciating  detail. Three years debating with myself. Three years, as you know very well, coming to terms with who I am, and why I did the things I did, and if there was any point to any of it at all. ‘

‘James…’

‘Be quiet. You will hear me out.’

Francis sat back in the seat and rubbed his fingertips over his lips. He watched his companion closely, saw him swallow in the moonlight.

‘I am done with it,’ James said simply. ‘I do not wish to return to sea, I do not wish for more adventure, I have had my fill of that. I do not wish to place myself in the path of death, _again_ , for Queen and country, I care not about the Admiralty, or society or any of its expectations.’

‘My God, you’ve turned into _me_ ,’ Crozier chuckled. James just looked at him irritably.

‘You are young James, your feelings may alter,’ Francis said somewhat paternally.

‘Do not patronise me,’ James snapped. ‘Do you not think my soul has aged two dozen years in that blasted place? I have seen things most men who lived their full three score and ten could not imagine. I have suffered I…’ he steadied his breath, ‘I have watched _you_ suffer, and I will have no more of it now.’

His eyes were wet, they glimmered in the moonlight. Francis watched his pain through the mirror of his own, but he struggled to believe this beautiful talented honourable man could closet himself away from a world that so deserved him.

‘It is understandable, James, to retreat for a time, but there is much ahead of you. E’en if you do turn your back upon the sea, there will be work which will engage you once again, fire your spirits up. You may wish to return to London, perhaps…’ and here he drew a hard breath of his own, for the question had tormented him since he had seen James at the Gala, ‘Perhaps even marry….’

James looked at him sharply. ‘Marry?’

‘It is an avenue open to you, James, the fine ladies of London will be queuing to claim you.’

‘God’s blood, Francis! Why would you even suggest that?’

Francis blinked, ‘I would not stand in your path, James, I think only of your future…’

‘And you think that marriage lies there?’

‘I.. I don’t know!’ Francis blustered.

‘But what about us.. _this_?’ James gestured between them with a hint of frenzy.

‘I don’t know what _this_ is, James!’

James’ jaw slackened in disbelief. ‘Did I not show you? There upon the _Enterprise_? Did I not force you to look upon it, see it in my eyes?  Did I not ask you to consider a life upon land? Do you seriously believe I would marry now…? Francis I am offering to share my life with _you_ , have I not made this clear?’

‘With me?’

‘Yes!’

‘In Herefordshire?’ he asked dumbly.

‘Yes, in bloody Herefordshire!’

‘But… James for Godssakes, why in heaven would you commit to a life with a disgraced, drunken, failure like me? I would bring you nothing but shame, and _gossip_ and derision. You would lose your status, your good standing and your own opportunity for a family of your own!’

‘You _are_ my family, Francis!’ James said shrilly. ‘You _are_ my bloody family, you are all that I care for! Why would I do anything other than share all I have with the person I love?’

 The carriage rumbled on. Francis sat upright in the seat, half rigid with shock.

‘You would… you would…?’ he stammered, not knowing quite what he asked.

‘Christ did you think I was just offering to put you up for a week until you got your rooms back? What in Hell’s name _did_ you think I was offering?’

‘I…’ he did not rightly know. He had not dared to hope.

Suddenly James pushed off his seat and lurched across the enclosure of the carriage, his head dangerously close to its overhead wooden beam. He half fell into the seat beside Francis as they bumped along.

‘I would share it all, Francis,’ he said quickly, ‘And you would want for nothing. I would… I would keep you safe, you would ne’er need to work again, or set to sea, or trek across frozen bloody continents, or suffer in any way at all. I would make a home for you, as cosy as you like, and it would be ours, together, far away from the prying eyes of London and whatever opinions they may have or make. I would choose my staff wisely and with discretion and we would be… just… Just a couple of retired ships’ captains living out their days in the countryside, running their little brewery, minding their own business.’

‘This is fantasy, James,’ Francis scoffed lightly though his heart beat quicker at each turn of James’ description.

‘It does not have to be,’ James persisted and looked up from their joined hands with full dark eyes. ‘Remember? You are all to me, Francis, _all and ever shall be_.’

He remembered then, the James within the tent, bandaged and too thin, to whom Francis had returned after his long march North. He remembered then the rush of relief when he had found him alive, the pledge he had made to both of them, the overwhelming sense that here, in the eyes of this man alone, was his home. Naught else mattered. Not the navy, or the public imagination, not his career, not his monetary worth and not, he was rapidly realising, his pride. Still he could not merely submit. Not without some semblance of appropriate protest.

‘I have nothing to give you, James,’ he said softly, ‘Quite literally nothing…’

James laid a warm hand upon his face then, rubbed the edge of his thumb over Francis’s cheekbone. He smiled as though addressing the most hapless of fools.

‘And what do you feel so strongly you must give?’ he asked gently.

Francis huffed in frustration, ‘You know, James, you know, I must contribute I… I will not be kept like a… like a…’

James raised an eyebrow. ‘Like what?’

‘Like a bloody wife!’ Francis shot back furiously. James blinked once and then in the most magnificent transformation of features, his face crumpled. He exploded with laughter.

‘Oh, dear God, Francis!’

‘It’s not amusing.’

‘Oh, but it is!’ he leaned back into the seat next to him and actually went so far as to hold both hands across his belly. Francis glared at him with absolutely no effect at all.

‘I am my own man! I have lived independently for forty years!’ he protested, ‘I had imagined one day to take care of mine own family not be given a monthly allowance and…’

‘Don’t spend it all on dresses!’ James cut in.

‘Shut up!’

James was still cackling by his side and despite his fury Francis found it to be contagious. He stilled his lips, forcing them back into a severe line against their will. He folded his arms and glowered out the window, but this only seemed to set James off further.

‘Oh, Francis for heavens sake! You will not be a kept companion, you’re not my bloody mistress. You may help run the business if you like, or write your damned memoirs, or whatever you please. I will be just as idle as you…’

‘You have a fortune, James, and you will play your role with ease I… I…. am not born to be a country gentleman at leisure.’

‘You can be whatever you wish… with me,’ James said. The carriage bumped over a rock and Francis grunted miserably.

‘You are not truly going to allow this to a block our path to happiness, are you?’ James said a little more calmly. Crozier felt his hand creep back over to latch over his folded arm. ‘Oh, please, have we truly survived all of this, just to quibble over gold? Gold, as we have discovered, that means nothing. Did we not dump it all when we jettisoned the desk and the bone china and all else truly useless on Somerset Isle. We had no need of gold then and did not forsake one another, did we? ’

Francis looked over his shoulder at him.

‘Hmm?’ James coaxed. ‘What does any of it matter, truly? Except that we are whole and well and happy?’

Francis bit his lip thoughtfully.

‘Very well,’ he groused.

‘And… will you forgive me?’ James said.

‘Hmm?’

‘For… for all of it. For the mess I made, the hurt I caused? I know there is much to discuss but…’

God, they still had all of the last few months to thrash out and relive. And what for? Francis knew in his heart he could no more hold a grudge against James than stop the sun from rising. He could not face it all again and James was right, it was irrelevant at the end.

‘Oh hang it all,’ Francis said suddenly, ‘Your actions were foolish, and many of them I shall never forgive entirely,’ he thought he felt James’s grip slacken for a moment, ‘But I forgive _you_ , James, on the very same principles you have just laid out. All I care about is your wellbeing, I’m incapable of anything else.’ He looked over again. ‘That is not to say I will not give you a mouthful about it as soon as I regain my strength, and you will be suitably chastened and repentant as a result.’

James nodded a little too meekly and all but fluttered his eyelashes at him in demonstration of his great remorse.

‘I’m serious!’ Francis said, swallowing his laughter.

‘Thank you,’ James said softly, his playful mask evaporating. He inched closer on the settle. ‘Are you cold?’

Francis raised an eyebrow. ‘It is not even freezing, the snow is melting.’

A sigh. James fished under the seat for a second and returned with a blanket in his hand. ‘That is not what I asked. Must you always brazen it out in a show of herculean masculinity. We’ve been chugging along in this drafty old thing for over an hour, frankly my arse hurts and my fingers are numb. Now admit it and put this around you,’ he thrust the edge of the blanket at Francis and gestured to his lap.

The smile Francis had been squashing down ruptured forth at last and triumphantly James leaned around him to tuck it down his side, bringing himself closer still before adjusting his own side of the thick woollen weave.

‘There,’ he declared, and casually wrapped an arm around Francis’ shoulders.

‘What are you…?’

‘We’re in a carriage, Francis, nobody can see us, it’s pitch dark.’

‘Still…’

‘For God’s sake,’ James leaned back to adjust the window behind him and then past him to deal with the one on his own side. He tugged the little blind down and the carriage became even blacker within. Francis felt James move back, his breath warm on his face.

‘Happier?’ he asked.

‘Somewhat.’

James’ lips ghosted over his cheek, paused to suck upon his mouth gently before the wet sweep of his tongue parted him. Francis gasped in reflex and the warm touch vanished briefly.

‘Happier?’ James asked again.

‘Mmm,’ Francis hummed into his mouth, seeking him out once more.

He felt James’ arms come around him as the kiss deepened and he was suddenly held taut and firm against his chest, against the wool of his cape and the dig of hidden buttons under cloth. He slipped a hand under the blanket to feel the curve of James’ thigh, stronger than he remembered, fuller; all of him fuller and harder and better than before. The taste of him, the pant of his breath, the way his long fingers now carded Francis’ hair and dropped to touch so gently at the crook of his jaw, the line of his neck, the cord of muscle running there to his clavicle. Those fingers lingering at his collar, probing beneath his cravat, at the vulnerable hollow to his throat, sweeping to cradle his head in his palm. Francis ran a hand beneath the cape and encircled him, his fingers splaying over his back and James’ kiss stifled his moan.

The rattle of the carriage seemed only to fuel their motions, their bodies moving against each other in fits and starts, the careful balance of restrained desire undone by sudden jerks and movement, a touch now too full, the palm of a hand meant to tease now bringing a sharp jolt of pleasure. Francis wanted him, God he wanted him, he strained painfully behind the fastening of his trousers, his mind aflame with images. James against him in the dark of their tent, the groan of his climax as they fumbled in the sleeping tent, the look within his eyes as he brought Francis to his resolution in their bunk, the vivid fantasies he had concocted on long arctic marches, the thousand ways he wanted to pleasure and be pleasured, and now they were but an hour from the estate. They were almost there.

Francis drew back suddenly, drawing in huge lungfuls of the breath he had neglected while James’s mouth was fastened over his in passion.

‘God almighty,’ James cursed, his own breathing harsh.

‘We should stop,’ Francis said.

‘Must we?’ James’ voice was plaintive.

‘Look at the bloody state of us!’

‘There’s no-body here but us.’

‘There are two men atop this carriage and we must yet deal with them upon our arrival.’

James snorted, ‘We are a bit dishevelled… but as we are already a little undone, we may as well resume?’

‘I’ll come in my damn linens if we _resume_ , James.’

James cocked an eyebrow, ‘That wouldn’t be so bad.’

‘For Christ’s sake!’

‘Francis!’

‘No!’

James huffed and ran his fingers through his hair as he leaned with one arm still around Crozier. He stared unhappily at the opposite seat. Francis wondered how much longer the journey had left. In truth he could quite easily dive back upon James and finish him, with his hand or his mouth he no longer cared, but something nagged at the back of his mind. In all this time they had experienced but a few quick and desperate embraces grabbed in stolen moments with little privacy. Even on the _Enterprise_ their time together had been brief and James had still been too weak to fully participate. Now they approached a house, with a warm fire and good food and a bed within that could be shared for as many or as few hours as they wished.

Francis realised he did not want to waste his pent-up energy in a quick fumble in the back of a dark carriage. He wanted more. He wanted James naked as the day he was born, stretched out before him on quilts and eiderdown. He wanted the light of the candles and the fire to bathe him in warmth. He wanted to watch his deep eyes darken with desire, see the flush spread out across his chest, savour each moan and whisper.  He wanted to map his body with his fingers and his tongue in ways he’d never dreamed of. He wanted the sweat to bead upon his skin, their bodies sealed together, the dig of desperate fingernails in his back. He wanted to watch James as pleasure took him, the furrow of his brow, the way his lips would part, the curses that would drop from his lips as he spent.  But most of all he wanted time and tenderness; the opportunity to give all he had to the one person who meant more to him than all they pain they had both endured. The one who made each tortured step of their voyage worth its resolution, and to whom he pledged his future. He wanted to love him utterly at last. They had earned this, every moment.

‘Please just… not here,’ he said faintly, drawing close again.

He nosed James’ neck softly and heard him make a surprised noise at the affectionate little gesture. Francis wrapped an arm around his middle and burrowed into him. For a moment he felt James’s eyes roving over him curiously before his arms shifted to encircle his body. James kissed his forehead.

‘I understand,’ he said gently. ‘We’ll soon be there.’


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The happy ending at last. NSFW all sorts of smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A serious note: This chapter deals a little with Francis' alcoholism and previous alcohol misuse. I've worked in addictions services for many years and there are a number of approaches including total abstinence and what is termed 'controlled drinking,' whereby clients are able to resume 'social drinking' without sliding back into alcohol dependence. This very often depends on the support they have around them, what triggered their heavy drinking in the first place and so on. It is a very personal choice and does not work for everyone and this fiction does not recommend or condemn it one way or the other. For 'my' Francis blocking his visions and feeling alone and under tremendous pressure were major triggers for his misuse of whiskey. Circumstances for him have changed and during this period a lot less was understood about alcohol misuse.

It was exactly as he had seen it. The house sprawled long and dark against the snow covered lawns, the turrets at each end spiralling high into the sky, their stone picked out in moonlight. Beyond the woods and within, Francis knew, the folly where James had spent his lonely evenings, but he did not head there now. James’ boots clicked up the steps and swung open the door to the cavernous hall, pitch black save for the shafts of silver light that feel through high windows. Francis lingered by a table, reaching hesitantly to feel the grain of the wood as if to test that this was no longer just a Vision but a real and welcoming place.

A match flared, and a sphere of light hovered by the staircase, James’s face illuminated and shadowed at once. He smiled.

‘Welcome home,’ he said. ‘Come, I’ve not opened most of it, I’m more or less living in a single room.’ He nodded above, and Francis followed.

The single room, it turned out, was at least five times the size of the Great Cabin aboard _Terror_ and therefore any of Francis’ places of residence in the last ten years _._ James had moved into the master suite upon his arrival, and while the corridors still lay bare or festooned with ghostly dust cloths, his inner sanctum was a comfortable mixture of stuffed armchairs, gilt picture frames and a large four poster bed. The room was festooned with ornaments and luxurious drapes, the curtains heavy burgundy velvet with golden ties, the fireplace enormous and surrounded by brass pokers, scuttles and brushes. Francis tried to avoid looking too pointedly at the bed, its oak posters carved in spirals, the same velveteen curtains hanging from each corner and upon it a rich silk quilt. There were pillows and cushions piled high, a decadent shrine to pleasure. It was quintessentially James.

‘Are you hungry?’ James asked as he lit the fire. He gestured to Francis to deposit his bag and Crozier slid it down the side of a dresser as though wishing it might vanish, so out of place did it seem. The room was too large, too ornate, it was like no house in which he had ever stayed and yet now it was his home. He picked awkwardly at his threadbare cuff. ‘You have not eaten all day, I’ll wager,’ James rose with a push to his knees and strode over to where Francis stood, his eyes still on his sleeve.

‘Francis?’ James said kindly and lifted his chin with the tip of a finger, his eyes crinkled as he drank him in, and drink him in he did, wending his hand around Francis’ neck to nestle his fingers in his hair, ‘I do believe you are anxious.’

The Crozier of old would have dismissed the taunting notion at once, and angrily too. Now instead his gaze skittered about the room while his heart hammered in his chest.

‘This is…’ he stopped and cleared his throat, ‘This is rather out of my sphere,’ he explained.

James glanced about the room. ‘It’s rather plush I’ll admit, but you’ll grow used to it,’ he smiled, ‘And you have not yet seen the rest of the place, it is all cobwebs and dust. Of course if you would prefer that…’ he teased.

‘Christ, why is this so difficult?’ Francis asked more of himself than of his companion.

James drew him close, pressed his mouth to the point below his ear softly. ‘You are a creature of the sea, quite out of water on land,’ he said pleasantly, sliding his hand down to take Francis’, ‘come and sit, I will fetch you something, you look quite wrung out.’

He was, he had to admit but even once guided to the two seater by the fire he could not seem to relax. James vanished from the room and his footsteps receded down the echoing hall. Francis watched the fire bloom, logs crackling and coal slipping as it took. The room heated quickly enough for the blaze was large behind the grate and all was warmth and light. Shadows clustered in corners but would not approach. He slumped down a little and stretched out his legs, waiting, listening to a clock chime somewhere in the distance. The number of strikes seemed off and he wondered how often it was wound. Were there even any servants here at all, or had James simply haunted his dead brother’s halls for months alone.

He shook his head, tried to free it of such morbidity on what he reasoned should be a night of infinite joy, but yet it was always with him, always heavy in his heart. He covered his brow with one hand and drifted.

When James returned he brought a tray, the silver glinting in the firelight. Laying it before them on a low table Francis noted it was stacked high with bread and soup, a slab of butter, salt, pepper, oil and napkins, heavy silver cutlery with a family crest carved at each handle. The plates were fine china, detailed in blue and then beside them, two tankards of an unknown steaming brew.

Francis frowned. The scent was intoxicating, sweet and spiced.

‘What is that?’ he asked.

‘Mulled cider, it’s delicious.’

Francis gave him a half hearted glare, ‘What in hell James, you know I cannot drink that!’

‘It is very light, Francis, barely fermented, too early in the season for that, the apples have hardly come off the trees.’

‘Even so! Would you have me backslide now?’

James sat beside him in his shirtsleeves.

‘Those were different times, Francis. You were under tremendous strain, had a preference for hard liquor and an inability to voice your troubles.’ He lifted one tankard. ‘You also did not have me.’

‘You arrogant swine!’

James grinned. Francis despaired.

‘If I am to live here, I can hardly develop a taste for bloody cider when you brew it on the property.’

‘Try not to dive headfirst into one of our vats.’

‘This isn’t funny!’

‘No, it isn’t,’ James said, ‘And I will certainly ensure that you find no stockpile of Irish Whiskey in the house, but I digress. Francis you are a changed man, in changed circumstances and I know you have no desire to go back to how things were. There are many who have suffered your affliction who now know moderation or temperence without total abstinence. It need not always be all or nothing… you need not deaden your Visions with drink nor drown your sorrow, for there will be no sorrow now and if there is,’ he handed the tankard to Francis, ‘then together we will work to alleviate it.’

The scent of cinnamon and clove wafted up from the mug. Francis eyed it suspiciously, a cloudy golden liquid swirled within, its surface speckled with tiny grains of reds and browns.

‘It is sweet,’ James said.

‘My preference was always bitter.’

James laughed, ‘How times change,’ he commented and clinked his own tankard against Francis’.

He took a sip, under James’ watchful eye, held the warm liquid in the nest of his tongue for a moment before swallowing. It was sweet, as James described, and rich with but the lightest note of alcohol, but mainly it was sugar and fruit and spices, mellow and soothing. He felt it travel down his throat and warm about his heart.

‘Don’t let me get drunk,’ he said.

‘You’d need a barrel of it to do that…’

‘James…’

‘You’re quite safe, Francis, I assure you.’

James reached for a bowl, ‘Now to continue our theme of living off the land I made some soup.’

Francis raised his eyebrow over his tankard. ‘Now I’m convinced you’re trying to kill me after all.’

James cast his eyes skyward. ‘Parsnip and apple, its nourishing, and grown here, and I’ll have you know diced and mashed with mine own fair hand.’

‘Have you gone mad?’

‘Well there’s nobody else here to prepare a meal, so I suggest you be thankful,’ he proffered the bowl. Francis set the tankard at his elbow and took it, followed by the spoon James waved in his direction. Finally a hunk of bread was dumped into the mixture. Francis snorted at his refined friend’s slovenly table manners.

‘Eat you buffoon,’ James said.

‘Do you always eat in here? I mean by your bedside?’ Francis asked tearing the bread into pieces and accepting the butter.

‘Well its not so very different from my own cabin upon _Erebus_ , we did everything in such close quarters there, even the seat of ease was by the breakfast table,’ he stirred at his bowl and quoted, ‘Does one not bring one’s habits into one’s own home?’

Francis met his eye. ‘I suppose you use only two drawers in your dresser too,’ he asked.

James looked horrified, ‘Dear God man, no I have a whole dressing room of fashionable items. Christ… I’ve just realised, have you anything other than that uniform?’

Francis looked down at his waistcoat, freckled with crumbs, ‘Um…’

‘Lord we must get you to a tailor as soon as possible, I had intended to peel you out of that for the final time tonight, but I suppose you cannot go about naked all day.’

‘What?!’

‘Well me may need to go out at some point,’ James mused with a wicked glint in his eye.

Francis paused mid bite of bread.

‘Don’t look so terrified,’ James laughed around a spoonful of soup, ‘Besides I have plenty you can borrow.’

‘I doubt it will fit.’

James look at him and for the briefest moment there was a sadness about his features. ‘Until we are able to feed you up to your usual proportions once more, I suspect it will all fit rather well,’ he reached out to Francis’s collar, slide a finger between its starch and his skin with ease, ‘You are still altogether too thin,’ he commented. ‘I suppose you have barely cared for yourself these last months.’

Francis felt his jaw twitch, ‘Not particularly, no.’

James took a knife and applied a liberal dollop of butter to Francis’ bread without a word.

 

He was two tankards of warm cider down and studying the dregs when James rose with a creak to stoke the fire. The soup and every scrap of bread was gone.

‘Would you like some more?’ James nodded towards the mug. Francis considered.

‘Actually…no,’ he said, ‘I feel…’

How did he feel? Not the lurching drunk he had so oft experienced in freezing ships, or the cloudy headed obscurity of a deadened Vision. Nor, did he note, did he crave more, for the stuff was so sweet it was as though he was filled with nectar and had no need for further sustenance. He felt warm, and oddly at ease, his limbs not heavy but strangely loose about him. His belly was full, and he was pleasantly fatigued and his mind…

He realised the broken trains of thought and disparate memories had ceased as he had listened to the lull of James’ voice by the fireside. He could not rightly tell what they had discussed, only that he was near, and no soul disturbed them. Had they ever had such a night before, without some threat of discovery or interruption, without the thin walls of a tent being their only tribute to privacy? He knew they had not.

James was waiting, curiously watching him.

‘You feel?’ he prompted.

‘Rather well, actually,’ Francis said bemusedly, he put down the tankard, ‘I need no more of this.’

James stepped before him and held out both hands. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows. Francis trailed his eyes up the ropes of purely defined muscle there and then on to where his buttons had come loose to half way down his chest. His braces hung about his thighs and at some point, Francis noticed, he must have removed his boots.

‘Up you come,’ James flicked his fingers back towards him, ‘Can’t laze about there all night.’

‘Why ever not? It is not as though…’ his eyes widened, ‘Oh,’ he said quietly. James laughed.

‘It is late, get up and come to bed, you are half dozing in your seat… like the retired old man you are.’

That roused him. Francis stood quickly then clutched at his back where he had seized from inactivity, ‘Jesus,’ he cursed and glared at the ripple of James’ amusement. ’Shut up.’

A pair of warm hands found his shoulders and eased there way down his arms before crossing his chest and working on each golden button on his waistcoat.

‘Let’s get you more comfortable, shall we?’ James glanced at him from under his lashes, his fingers moving nimbly, ‘and out of this blasted uniform. It is a thing of the past, Francis.’

The waistcoat came away and James cast it nonchalantly across the back of the sofa. He slipped his fingers under Francis’s braces and pulled them down before his palms rested upon his shoulders softly, kneading with increasing pressure as Francis groaned beneath his touch.

‘Good?’ James queried and at the resultant puff of breath slyly freed his collar and slipped his fingers under the linen of his shirt. Francis tipped into him, rested his head against his neck as more buttons came undone and James’ hands slide further over his body. He tugged his tails from his trousers and ran his fingers soothingly up his back, kneading and circling, flattening his palms, working his way to the curve of Francis’s spine where the worst of the almost permanent ache took residence. James deepened his touch, the muscles growing pliant under his fingertips and Francis humming into his ear.

‘I could do this much better lying down,’ James suggested. Francis lifted his head and gazed at him bleary from relaxation.

‘Hmm,’ he agreed with a half smile, ‘Suppose.’

‘Sit,’ James backed him up against the bed, its mattress surprisingly high against Francis thighs and bid him hop up before stooping to pull his boots away, stripping back navy issue stockings, and teasing his calves with a quick squeeze of his fingers. ‘Lay back,’ he commanded.

Francis did what he was told, gazing up into the canopy of the bed. Like a cocoon, he pondered, a cocoon for two. What strange new beginnings might hatch from such a thing.

James had disappeared, then there was a clink upon the bedside cabinet, and Francis felt his hands upon the buttons of his trousers. He angled himself up on his elbows to watch curiously, noted that James had taken the opportunity to remove his own shirt completely and now stood only in his smallclothes by the side of the bed. Francis sat up further to appraise the sight before him, raising his eyebrows as he did so and catching James’s eye. The man actually pursed his lips in response and with a flourish yanked Francis’ trousers downward before a devilish grin spread over his face. Francis tipped back again and laughed.

James crawled over him, his hand sliding under his shirt and peeling it away. With a shock, Francis realised he was quite bare, the silk of the quilt under his back, the warm air of the cosy room upon his skin, and James was astride his thighs, his eyes running down him like water and a flush upon his cheeks.

‘Christ, Francis,’ his voice came out low, his playful coquettishness momentarily diverted by the sight under him. Slowly he reached out his hand, flat, fingers splayed, and ran it the length of Francis’ torso. ‘You’re lovely,’ James muttered, entranced. ‘I’d never seen… I mean there was always so much… it was too cold… you’re… God, you’re magnificent.’

Francis flushed as much from the tone of his voice as from the words. He felt it travel from his cheeks to his chest, serving only to heighten his embarrassment and James’ open and somewhat wanton observation of his flesh. He fought with the impulse to cover his face or eyes and instead worried at his lip, staring hard at the canopy again. The bed creaked and there was a sliding of fabric. Francis gasped.

James leaned forward, and Francis realised he had removed his linens. The heat of his body now seared atop of him, his skin tender and so soft as he moved, planting his weight upon his arms on either side of Francis’s head, his pelvis flush against him. It was beautiful. It was exquisite, the intensity of simple human touch, of intimacy long held off by circumstance alone. Instinctively Francis parted his legs so they could entwine further and James bent his face to his neck, his tongue darting out and slowly mapping his skin. Francis whined.

‘Shhh,’ James whispered, ‘We have all the time in the world now.’

He rolled to one side and encouraged Francis over, turning him slightly on the bed until his face was buried in pillows. The coverlet rucked up with the friction and James tugged it back until cool linen pressed against Francis belly and the growing heat within. James leaned towards the cabinet and there was a liquid sound, a pause and then the slick feel of oil upon skin.

Francis started, though the sensation was not cold, rather the firm pressure of James hands upon his back seemed to move through him as a hard pulse of pleasure. Every muscle unlocked, he groaned into the pillow and James applied more weight to his touch, drawing long swathes of contact up and down his back, kneading his shoulders, his arms, moving in circles with his thumbs as he charted each plane. His fingers came to his waist then dipped below, the pressure points gliding over his buttocks, until his palms kneaded them openly. Francis heard a choked noise from his own throat and James bent briefly to kiss his spine, tiny peppered kisses, deep laves of his tongue, mouthing his flesh open and wet, such a variance of sensation that Francis no longer knew whether his body desired to follow his arousal or melt into each touch.

When James dipped a hand between his legs, he found the decision made for him. His fingers threaded through his parted thighs, traced a slick of oil over his balls and Francis moaned lowly as the pleasant warmth in his belly now sparked like fire. He jerked into the bed, his need pressing out of nowhere, the sultry fog of slow massage lifted in an instant. He felt James slide from atop of him and encourage him over before settling above him again, propping himself on one elbow as he watched his face.

This time Francis felt at ease, he held his eye as James’ hand skimmed over his hardened cock and then up over his stomach, leaving traces of oil as it tracked over his chest. James thumbed a nipple then bent to kiss the other, his tongue slow around the bud, sucking and nipping. Francis inhaled sharply but the breath then left him slowly in a soft ‘ah.’ He felt James smile.

‘Better?’ he asked him, his leg wrapping round Francis’, drawing his thigh outward. Francis loosely held the back of his head, let his fingers wander through his thick dark hair.

‘I could be better still,’ he said.

‘Mmm,’ James smiled and kissed him, gently at first, before opening to a slow deep rhythm. Body slowly wrapped around body, limbs slid over and against flesh, hips moved in need against one another. It was languid, then urgent, slipping in and out of pattern, breath fast and shallow between mouthfuls of kisses. Francis felt the heat in his groin turn to an ache, the need for something deeper, something more building within him, James’s cock hard against his stomach, pushing, pushing with each quickened thrust. Christ he was climbing, he wanted more of it, and more, like he never had in his life before, so desperate. He whispered supplication as they rutted, don’t stop, don’t stop.

‘No,’ Francis moaned when James broke away, tried to hold him to him, but the shared oil of their embrace allowed him to dive nimbly, slippery under his arms. His lips landed on his chest, then his stomach, but the lingering exploration of Francis’ back was superseded now by urgency. His mouth moved quickly down, to where Francis’s swollen burning length lay stiff against his stomach and with a purposeful movement James licked a stripe from base to tip.

‘Jesus!’ Francis arched off the bed at the contact and James used one arm to pin across his hips, holding him steady as he licked and sucked, teasingly, slowly, achingly taking in a little of his cock at a time before pulling back and resuming the exploration with his tongue. Francis bucked under him, a shot of desire flaming through each nerve, his focus suddenly clear and the world narrowed only to the pulse of need within and the tiny actions of James’ tongue against his boiling skin.

‘God, James, please…’

A hum of pleasure from his lover’s throat and Francis slid half into him.

‘Dear… _God,’_

James bobbed there slowly, one hand circling the base, the wet sound of suction drifting sharply from his mouth and with every noise Francis’ cock twitched and ached the more. He gripped the sheets on either side, then grasped at James’ hair with one fist.

‘Christ… _oh_ … God.’

He looked down. He had to see and there in the warm light of the room James’ pale body draped itself across his shamelessly. The curves of his muscles picked out in the shadows of the fire, each flex a ripple of darkness replaced by light. Oil and sweat made him gleam, flawless and beautiful, his long hair spilling o’er his face and Francis’ belly alike as he worked. Entranced by the beat of his movement Francis watched his turn his face, angle the tip of his cock into his cheek so that his tongue might work the side and he glanced up. James smiled through his eyes and let the sharp tips of his white teeth scrape the underside of Francis’ length.

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ Francis tipped back against the pillow, his hips trembling under the onslaught. Below James focused down, sucked his length in deep and hard and held it almost painfully. Francis let out a loud groan followed by a shallow staccato of need, each note higher than before.

‘Ah… oh… oh… _oh!_ ’

James pulled back suddenly.

‘Jesus … God… James… no… _please_ …’

But James was sliding up his body again with a soothing sweep of his palm across his chest. Flushed and panting, unable to quell the urge to writhe against the bed, Francis gripped him as they met face to face, kissing him hard and needy, nipping at his lips, urging his hips against the hardness he found waiting at James’s groin. James was heavy and hot against him, moisture smearing from the tip of his cock, and when Francis dared to break his desirous kisses, he found him flushed and dark eyed, as desperate as he.

He flipped him onto his back and kissed his neck thoroughly before seizing him tight in his grip. James let out a startled laugh and then lay passively, happily beneath him, pinned by the weight of Francis’ hands upon his wrists, squeezed back into the feather pillows that scattered beneath his beautiful hair. Fine linens at his back, a fire in the hearth. James warm and whole and safe in Francis’ arms.

Francis hesitated, a tiny frown crossing his face.

He had seen it all before and yet he had never understood. He had thought it just a daydream, a distraction on a cold and desperate march to unlikely rescue. If only he had known, if only he had realised. It was the future he had seen. It was a Vision.

 ‘Francis?’

‘I… God…’

It was James’s turn to frown, ‘Are you all right?’

The feeling hit him with the power of every storm he had ridden. It broke forth like a wave. He could steer his ship with all his strength and still its force would wreck him utterly.

‘I love you,’ he said hoarse and bare.

James’s eyes moved slowly over his, one hand slipping from his grasp to cup his face.

‘Francis, love,’ he breathed, ‘Christ. I need you… please… now.’

He hesitated. ‘I… I don’t know…’

James leaned up and behind him, returned with the little bottle of oil which already half coated their skin and Francis let him pour some into his hand. James worked his fingers and then for good measure coated his cock before tipping his hips towards him.

Francis settled above him.

‘Work me first,’ James directed quietly, ‘With your fingers.’

‘Christ, James I…’

James took his wrist and move his hand between his legs until his fingers moved slowly under his guidance over and around that tender forbidden spot. Gently Francis worked him, listening to each breath and moan as he relaxed under his touch, pressing deliberately, unhurriedly against his entrance until he was sure that he would give, that he _needed_ to give, and James’s shallow moan came low and deep as he slipped first one finger then two within.

‘Yes, Francis, inside… deeper now.’

He was achingly hot and it took all of Francis reserve not to lose his wits as his cock throbbed against James’ hip. Tight around his fingers he heeded James’s body as he pressed down against him until Francis crooked his fingers and something gave way.

‘ _Oh_ ,’ James’ soft sounds of guidance became strained, ‘Yes… there… Christ… oh… that’s good… like that,’ and he slipped his own hand around his cock and stroked in time with Francis’s hand.

A fresh heat bloomed on Francis’ face at the sight and he was forced to bite hard upon his lip to contain his desire. He wriggled up against him, cradled him in one arm as he slowly moved his fingers across the secret spot.

‘Jesus, James,’ he muttered against him, kissing the shell of his ear, suckling on the lobe of it, ‘Fuck, you’re beautiful like this. You’re beautiful.’

His brow furrowed, mouth slack, James squeezed shut his eyes against a rising tide of pleasure. His stroke increased, the tip of his cock flush darkly and Francis was certain he would spill any moment when James tore his hand away and impulsively gripped him just below the elbow as he stammered out half formed words.

 ‘Francis…. Please… not going t’last… need you.’

Gently Francis removed his fingers even as James was hauling him atop of him and plundering his mouth with deep kisses, sucking on his tongue, consuming him. He felt his hips angle up again, insistent, his legs parted but clamping around his hips. Francis tore back from the kiss, dimly aware that he had no inkling of what to do but driven now by instinct alone. He positioned himself, and slowly, painfully slowly pushed himself into James.

James’ back arched and his head snapped to one side with a grunt. With a sudden push he burrowed down upon Francis urgently, his muscles seizing around his cock.

‘Ah, fuck, _fuck_ James…’ Francis’ fingernails curled into the pillows behind James’ head and his hips jerked forward of their own accord. He would not last, could not last like this, the heat, the tension, the utter pleasure of James beneath him, moving quickly, hungrily around him, the sounds that growled forth from his throat, the look of absolute desire upon his features, flushed and sweating, Christ it was too much, too much, the pleasure tore through every nerve, pulsing rapidly, building, building, every fibre of his body shaking now and driving towards one goal. He needed James, he needed him. His James, debauched and wanton and fucked beneath him, his cries coming faster, hoarser, breathless.

‘Francis… Francis… Christ… oh… _fuck_.’

He felt it coming seconds before James spilled, the sudden spasm of muscle around his straining cock, the ripples of release within and then the heat and wet between them, painting thick ribbons over James’s chest as he bowed beneath him, his hands clawing at the sheets then Francis, the flush across his chest red and hot now, beaded with the sweat of his exertion and the slickness of his seed. Francis bucked at the sensation and the sight, his body urging forward hard and a blaze of light behind his eyes as the feeling griped him, over and over, until it ended as suddenly as it began and every muscle collapsed under him, shaking from effort. He lay panting on James’ chest and softening inside him, his lovers heart hammering against his ear.

When he finally regained his breath, he slid away and tugged the sheets about them. James was already half dozing, moving on instinct towards the warmth of Francis’ body as he tucked them in, a tangle of limbs and torso. Somewhere far away a clock chimed but time had altered its pace and stretched softly ahead of both of them, unhurried and unchecked.

He felt proud, contented, whole. His smile would not leave his lips. Francis let his gaze linger on his lover’s tranquil face, laid side by side, foreheads almost touching. He held one hand in his and kissed it softly before touching the tip of his nose against James’ own. Briefly James’ opened his eyes and found him.

He was beautiful and, in the dark of his pupils, like a mirror, Francis saw his own reflection clearly.

 

 


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so we reached the end... the Epilogue

‘God wants you to live, Francis,’ James’ voiced called mockingly from his dressing room, where no doubt he was browsing through a choice of waistcoats, ties and hats. He had been up for hours, rustling about while Francis stalwartly refused to rise before nine at least. Too long had he been up  at the crack of dawn, in places where some days the sun did not even rise. He would be damned if he would get up now in the dark.

‘Its too early for living,’ Francis grumbled. ‘I can live later on.’

A pile of clothes landed upon the eiderdown with a soft thwump. James stood with folded arms in his ridiculous dressing gown and glared at him from his elevated position.

‘We cannot hole up here for the rest of our lives, we must venture out! The air is fresh, the snow is melting! Life is for grasping and appreciating…’

‘I am appreciating it. Very much. From here,’ Francis said.

James sighed and clattered loudly about the room, whipping a brush through his hair solely, Francis suspected so that he could then bang it down upon the dressing table and clank glass bottles of hair oil  and cologne against one another. Francis groaned and pulled the coverlet o’er his head against the din. A moment later James shoved his shoulder.

‘Get up you lazy oaf, we must to town.’

‘Must we?’

‘Yes, I’ve already booked, and it would be rude to keep them waiting.’

‘I’m sure they will forgive us, seeing as you’re paying a bloody fortune for their services.’

‘ _Francis_!’

‘Yes all right, all right.’ He made no effort to emerge.

‘How in God’s name did Jopson ever get you moving first thing?’ James huffed, ‘I am considering his employment, we need a gentleman’s valet around here, you never fold your clothes, let alone brush them down and frankly I do not have the patience.’

Francis chuckled darkly under the quilt.

‘If you do not move, right this moment, I will insist on taking up Lady Franklin’s offer of dinner this evening.’

Francis peered over the edge of the sheets.

‘You would not…’

James raised his eyebrows emphatically. ‘Do not toy with me Francis, I know your weaknesses better than any other, and your petty tortures, and I will employ them if needs be.’

He heaved himself from the bed under James’s watchful gaze and glowered at him in challenge. Yes, he was getting up, no he did not have to be merry at this ungodly hour of the morning, but yes he would do almost anything on God’s green earth to avoid dinner with that woman, particularly now that she was finalising her memoirs and would likely try to drag the whole ghastly story back from its recently filled in grave.  James appraised his upright position, nodded once and went back to his wardrobe.

Francis used the pot to piss in the half grey light of the winter morning. It was bloody freezing.

Technically it was spring. He had seen a good number of technical springs in his time. In the arctic spring largely meant more snow, sometimes worse than technical winter, but here he sensed, there was a change despite the lingering frost. When the sun was up properly he would see patches of grass beneath the last of the melt, and in the flower beds the first of the snowdrops and bluebells. He smiled to himself and when he was finished moved to gather the latest costume James had cobbled together. He supposed it really was about time he saw the tailor as they had planned today, he’d made do for almost two months. There had been very little need to go outside.

He stood by the washstand and shaved in the hot water James had provided and felt moderately guilty for lazing about while his better half clucked and brewed tea and carted warm water from the kitchen. He would take his turn tomorrow. Perhaps they should get some servants after all, but the peaceful privacy of the manor was loathe to be shattered. He considered, Jopson could well be an option. Or he could just learn to get up on time again, he supposed.

Francis listened to James as he remerged fully dressed and prattled about Chinese silk. There was some new style in cravats and he thought Francis could use a top hat. Francis thought it all a little pretentious for a man who spent his days by the fire in the kitchen reading novels and occasionally going for a walk in the grounds, but it pleased James, and that was largely what he lived for.  James for his part seemed content to be a country gentleman but having taken himself out of London discovered he could not entirely remove London from himself. He was still a fashion conscious peacock of a man.

Francis slipped on his waistcoat and attempted to button it.

‘Christ,’ he complained when the material strained under his fingers.

There was a distinct chuckle behind him and Francis looked up to the mirror to find James at his back.

‘Shall I loosen these buckles, old thing?’ he laughed as he helped himself to the straps at the back of the garment. ‘Put on a few pounds have you?’

Francis’s brow knit in their combined reflection.

‘Oh come now, don’t sulk, it rather suits you,’ James said.

‘What?’

‘Well ‘tis a sign of good health is it not?’ he smiled and reach round to circle Francis’ waist on the pretence of tugging down the waistcoat to position, but his arms rested there too long. He cautiously patted his noticeably more rounded stomach. Francis scowled and James dipped his head down onto his shoulder, watching him in the glass.

‘God wants you to live, Francis,’ he said gently, ‘Enjoy it. Good food, portly bellies and all, there’s worse out there, hmm? Grumpy bugger,’ his expression was tenderness itself.

The sun was higher on the horizon now and the grey light of dawn had transformed to the pale gold of an early spring day. In the mirror the shadows fled from their features and James’s eyes were bright and clear. He kissed Francis’ cheek soothingly and Francis watched the lines of his own face soften at the action, for no darkness lingered. His face was his own now, he was not alone, and the reflection of the man beside him was no longer just the spectre of a love he had thought lost.

If he turned from the mirror, James would still be there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ALL the lovely people who commented and continue to comment, it makes my day, it makes me write, it makes me want to please you in multiple ways and frequently. This fandom is so welcoming, I'm having so much fun and I hope now all that angst is out the way to pepper you all with fluffy smut for days to come.


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